The Mercenaries (20 page)

Outside they found a group of students with the Peugeot’s bonnet open, trying to start it, and they had to throw them out before they could drive away. As they rattled on to the field at Yaochow, they saw that Lawn had returned once more and that the engine of the Crossley was already emitting clouds of blue smoke to the delight of the watching coolies and Wang’s shrieking children.

‘Lawn’s made it,’ Sammy crowed as they stopped.

Lawn waved and Ira’s heart went out to him. He’d been a nuisance from the day they’d first met him and had never been very reliable, but for once he’d done all they’d asked of him and more.

He grinned at Sammy. Neither of them had ever regarded Tsu’s war with Kwei as any of their concern, but since they were being paid to do a job, they were both trying to do it conscientiously, and he was delighted to realise that, despite the suddeness of the move from Hwai-Yang, they had hardly lost a thing worth keeping.

‘Apart from spares, Sammy,’ he said. ‘We’ve got more than when we left.’

2

Within a week the airfield at Yaochow was in complete working order, with even the dilapidated farm building clear of rubbish and Wang on the roof replacing the scattered tiles. One half had been arranged as an office and the other contained a camp bed and a coloured Peking rug, for whoever stayed on duty overnight.

They got one brief glimpse of Tsu as he arrived to take over his new territory, his cavalcade of ancient cars rattling past towards the city. No one even stopped work to look at them. In the first car the Pride of the Missionaries sat with Lao, both of them stem and military in their uniforms, and in the next Madame Tsu and the amah, and Philippe Tsu, still clutching his violin case.

Ira wasn’t sorry to see them continue on their way without stopping-He had more than enough to do to get the field organised. To his surprise and Fagan’s noisy delight, De Sa’s old traction engine proved to be a tremendous asset and, with the aid of a sheerlegs, a block and tackle and a wire strop, they found they could hoist things in and out of the lorry simply by attaching the rope to her and driving her away. She could lift huge weights with ease and for the first time Ira blessed Fagan’s lunatic sense of humour.

More petrol appeared and the shelters were built, and across the field they found a huge wood-and-stone barn where they could store their supplies.

A big bungalow, all red lacquer, screens and glazed paper windows, close to the Chang-an-Chieh Pagoda, was found, Fagan and Ellie taking over one half while Ira and Sammy took over the other with Mei-Mei and a houseboy to look after them. Lawn had found himself a Chinese woman and chose to live with her at Yaochow, as far away from Ira as he could get; and Wang was established in the barn as watchman. Tents arrived for the pupil pilots and by the end of the week the flying programme had started again.

The following week, making arrangements to cover all possible events. Ira flew down to Shanghai in the Albatros. He had briefed everyone carefully, and had given Sammy an extra, more private, briefing, in which he had covered every possible emergency that might arise from the hostile movements of General Kwei, the stubborn persistence of Tsu, or the unexpected peccadilloes of Fagan. Sammy had nodded carefully, his young face grave and responsible, and Ira had felt well able to leave things in his expert hands.

He would have preferred to fly the newer Fokker but the B.M.W. was giving trouble and he had to be satisfied with the Albatros. At some point in her career, however, she’d been crash-landed and they’d never been able to true up the rigging, and the ageing Mercedes had a nasty habit of spewing oil into the slipstream so that it fogged his goggles and coated the fuselage with tiny quivering black streams. She was a roomy machine, however, and Sammy had strapped spare cans of petrol in every available space.

It was a big journey he was making alone, but they had given it considerable thought and he had decided to follow the safe route of the river where there would be plenty of Europeans and help if necessary, and he had arranged by telegraph for petrol to be available at Fanchang. At Tangtu he refuelled the machine himself with what he carried and at Nanking, not far from the crenellated walls of the city, he checked the engine, refuelled once more and refilled the empty cans, eventually touching down at Shanghai, numb with tiredness, his ears drumming from the sound of the engine and the noise of the wind, but warm with a sense of achievement. All the work he and Sammy had put in on the battered old Mercedes had paid dividends and it hadn’t given him a moment’s worry.

He made arrangements with an Australian engineer to look after the aeroplane and organise petrol for the return trip, and borrowed his telephone to contact Kowalski.

‘Hi, Ira!‘ The American seemed delighted to hear his voice. ‘What’s it like up there?’

‘Not very easy. I’m down to buy spares.’

‘We’ll get ‘em for you. Everybody’ll help. Policy down here’s to help the Peking government just now and Tsu’s all right. Chiang’s suddenly getting too big for his boots. He’s talking now of a big advance from Canton and everybody’s pretending to be scared it’ll be us next. It’s business, of course. How’re you getting on with the instructing?’

Ira laughed. ‘Not so good.’

‘The slopeheads don’t seem to catch on, do they? Makes all this talk of China for the Chinese seem goddam silly. Nobody down here’s losing any sleep over Chiang.’

Ira frowned. No one in Tsosiehn or Hwai-Yang spoke with such certainty.

He was thoughtful as he replaced the receiver and vaguely irritated as he headed for the city, but the old sensation of excitement returned as he saw the busy streets and heavy wheeled traffic of a modern metropolis again. A gunboat was swinging at anchor at Woosung, while the junks moved past like stately brown castles on the ebb tide that rolled, vast and tawny, down to the sea.

His first call was to Kowalski’s office, and the American returned at once to their telephone conversation. ‘Chiang’ll never do it, Ira,’ he said earnestly. ‘Not yet. He’ll be back here soon, taking refuge in the International Settlement like Sun Yat-Sen did before him. The northern warlords are forming an alliance against him and I’ve heard Tsu’s already come to an agreement with General Choy to hold his flank until he can rebuild his armies and push south again against Kwei.’

Ira grinned at the look on Kowalski’s face. Not yet. Not yet. All the treaty port white men who regularly piled their families, servants and luggage on to the steamers and sailed for the coast at the first sign of warlord trouble, all held the same view. Not yet. But Hwai-Yang was still too fresh in Ira’s mind for him to be so sure and he had lived a little closer to the Chinese than most Europeans for the last few weeks and learned a great deal about Chinese politics remarkably quickly. Chiang had discovered a new way to conduct campaigns and could prove more difficult than the people on the coast dreamed.

‘I don’t have much faith in Tsu’s alliance, Eddie,’ he said slowly. ‘I think the people down here are backing the wrong horse.’

Kowalski looked uncomfortable. ‘Hell, Ira, the slopeheads can’t do without us! Not yet! They’re not ready for it.’

For a long time he chewed at his nails, his eyes suddenly worried, then Ira demanded information about Fagan’s spares.

Kowalski laughed. ‘Spares?’ he said. ‘He fixed no spares! He spent most of his goddam time in the Long Bar. I think half the time he was trying to make up his mind to take a boat home, only he hadn’t the guts.’

It was much as Ira had expected and came as no surprise. Freed from Ellie’s restrictive straightforwardness, Fagan had swept over the edge of common sense into a crazy binge that had broken things, hurt people’s feelings and left him ill, sick of himself and plagued by guilt.

‘Well, look,’ Ira said earnestly. ‘
I
want help, Eddie. And I want it now.’

Kowalski wasted no more words but pushed his chair back and reached for his hat. ‘Let’s go,’ he said shortly.

They took a taxi along the Bubbling Well Road to A. V. Roe’s China agent, an energetic Scot who immediately showed his dislike of Chiang by promising everything Ira asked for and what spares he could raise for the German machines.

They’ll send ‘em up from Singapore.’ he promised. ‘They’ve got a few 504s down there. I’ll put ‘em on one of the new motor junks for you.’

Ira nodded his approval and got down to signing the necessary papers, then the agent personally took them by car to a godown along the bund, a host of small stores and sheds about the city and the office of a friend of his in the Royal Navy. By the time they had finished, they had a car load of tools, paint, varnish, vacuum flasks, fire extinguishers, steel cable, files, hacksaw blades, bulbs, batteries, and even an oxy-acetylene welding outfit that Ira knew Sammy was going to crow over.

‘That ought to give Chiang something to think about,’ Kowalski said happily.

That evening, Kowalski produced a couple of American girls he knew and it was almost daylight when Ira, still dazed from the half-dozen frenzied parties they’d managed to attend, got back to his hotel. Almost immediately, Kowalski telephoned him. He sounded on edge.

‘I’ve had a telegraph message,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure you’re going to like it. Better come on over to the apartment.’

After breakfast and a shave Ira made his way to the American’s apartment. Kowalski was looking a little worried, staring at a silk stocking tied to the light shade, and a balloon and various items of female attire strewn about the floor.

He jerked his head at the bedroom door. ‘These dames,’ he said. ‘Shanghai’s no place for a God-fearing Pennsylvania boy like me.’

He picked up a buff form and looked at Ira. ‘You’re to pick up “ironmongery” for Lao,’ he said. ‘It’s guns, I guess. Something’s happening at Tsosiehn.’

With Kowalski frowning heavily against the bright light, they boarded a ferry to Pootung and took a cab through the teeming streets. In the Chernikieff Road, where story-tellers squatted on the crowded pavements with their gongs and their bowls, and fortunes were offered with packs of cards and singing birds, Kowalski stopped the cab and climbed out.

‘I guess this’ll do,’ he said, lighting a cigar.

They pushed through the crowds beneath the long waving tradesmen’s banners of scarlet, white and gold that made every day a festival, and turned down a narrow street pulsating with the din of hundreds of voices. Outside the warehouse where Kowalski stopped was a pile of junk, with bedsteads, bathtubs, firegrates and bonnets of old cars predominating, and at the end of it a stair to what appeared to be a small dwelling tacked on, seemingly as an afterthought. Even this was encumbered with scrap iron.

There was one big room on the landing and a whole family sat inside drinking tea from cups of blue and white porcelain delicate as eggshells. There appeared to be more scrap even here, and several wooden crates.

A Chinese of extreme emaciation, with a straggly grey beard, came forward and kow-towed to Kowalski, who gestured with his cigar.

‘Mr. Yip,’ he said briefly. ‘Ira Penulana.’

The Chinese kow-towed again and made them sit down. A girl brought them tea from a pot which had been resting in a silk-lined box. No one took any notice of them and they drank the bitter green liquid slowly. There was an advert for Three Castles cigarettes on the wall and a European calendar with a Chinese girl smiling from it.

One of the older women rose and began to iron with a heavy charcoal iron, hobbling about on crippled bound feet, and after a while, the emaciated Chinese reappeared and gestured towards a door at the end of the room.

They followed him into what appeared to be a storeroom, full of cardboard boxes and wooden crates. There were a few coolies about in blue cotton, chattering as they worked.

The Chinese led them among the crates, which were marked with the names of British and American manufacturers. Most of them seemed to be half filled with shavings.

The Chinese indicated a couple of crates marked B.S.A. Cycles, Ltd., and one of the coolies moved the shavings and peeled back a layer of oiled paper. There were machine guns beneath the straw, wrapped in paper and rags.

Kowalski gestured and the Chinese lifted one of the guns for Ira to see. It looked new and in good condition.

‘Lewis,’ the Chinese said. ‘Also Spandaus.’

Ira glanced at Kowalski, puzzled. Tsu’s asking for these a bit early, isn’t he?’ he said. ‘His pupils can’t even fly yet.’

The Chinese was indicating another crate now and, inside, half hidden in the shavings, were small round objects with fins.

‘Cooper bombs!’ Ira’s eyes flew again to the American’s. ‘Eddie, for God’s sake, you use these for ground-strafing! Those damn pupils won’t be capable of that for months--if ever. What the hell’s going on?’ Forebodings assailed him. Either Kwei was on the move and Tsu and Lao were screaming for help, or Fagan had gone mad.

Kowalski was nodding to the Chinese, then he turned away and, as they left the warehouse, Ira saw the coolies carrying armfuls of bicycle parts and laying them in the crates on top of the guns.

‘How do you get ‘em past the Customs inspectors?’ he asked.

‘
Fan-Ling
,’ Kowalski said laconically. ‘Captain’ll accept bribes. Our name won’t be on ‘em.’

‘Do all the businessmen do this?’

Kowalski ground out his cigar. ‘
I
do, because I’m Tsu’s agent and that makes it my job. I guess there are plenty of others, though. Englishmen, too.’

Ira stared at him. ‘To Chiang as well?’

‘I guess so. Business is business, Ira.’

Ira was in a thoughtful mood when he took off for Nanking the following morning, his mind straying back constantly to the machine guns and the Cooper bombs and what they might mean. The Australian in charge of the field was thinking of pulling out of China with everything he possessed and he was a little cynical about Ira flying into the interior.

‘What’s the point? he said. ‘It’s no life, sport, living day to day, bar to bar, bottle to bottle. It’s a cow, I reckon. A fair cow.’