The Hatred of a Million Coolies.

1929-1930.

The foundations of the colonial era, during which white European nations dominated vast areas of Asia, Africa and Latin America, were fatally undermined for the first time during the turbulent second decade of the twentieth century.

Revolutions toppled first the Chinese emperor in 1911, then the tsar of Russia in 1917; the Great War of 1914-1918 also weakened the European powers drastically and at the same time showed the colonized peoples that their seemingly invincible white masters were capable of enormous self-destructive folly. This undermining of the colonial system was accelerated further by the formation in 1919 of the Communist International. The organization was dedicated to the overthrow of capitalism worldwide, and in the latter years of the l920s Comintern agents began working secretly in the vulnerable, far-flung colonial territories of the capitalist nations to exploit the native discontent. In the Annamese lands political dissatisfaction had intensified following the premature death of the Emperor Khai Dinh in November 1925. He was only forty-three when he died, and the French, seizing the opportunity to reinforce their influence, insisted that he should be succeeded by his son, Bao Dai, then a boy of twelve still at school in Paris. They ensured that the infant emperor continued to study in Paris for another seven years and meantime the French Resident Superieur in Hue arrogated to himself the few remaining vestiges of imperial authority. This quickened anti-French feeling, and encouraged by the successes of Sun Yat-Sen and Mao Tse-tung in neighbouring China, Annamese nationalists and Communists began to organize themselves more coherently. The Great Depression of 1929 sharpened the mood of rebellion when a catastrophic fall in the price of rice spread hardship and even starvation to many parts of Indochina. As a result of these mixed forces the resistance movements that had previously been the exclusive domain of irresolute Annamese intellectuals began, as the decade drew to a close, to stir the ma.s.s of the people toiling in the rice fields, the mines and the rubber plantations.

1.

With its customary fury the northeast monsoon fling its nightly torrent of rain onto the close-packed ranks of rubber trees sprouting from the red-brown jungle soils of the Vi An plantation a hundred kilometers north of Saigon. In the midnight blackness the glossy-leaved trees stood silent, each with a beggar's cup of tin wedged against its straight trunk to catch the milky latex that oozed slowly from within. On the earth floors of the leaking, palm-thatched barrack huts dotted around the vast plantation, fifteen hundred Annamite coolies who would resume the unending toil of emptying the little tin cups in the gray light of the corning dawn shivered and drowsed fitfully in the downpour. To their untutored peasant minds it seemed that the endless rows of alien rubber trees marching with unnatural precision across great tracts of their wild ancestral jungles provoked the storm each night to new extremes of savagery.

In Village Number Three, where five hundred coolies were quartered, the men were packed so tight in their barracks that many of them slept and dozed seated upright. Ngo Van Dong and his younger brother, Hoc, huddled close together in the darkness in one of the long huts, their ragged clothes already saturated with the rain that streamed in through the inadequate thatch. Close beside them an older coolie, stretched full-length on the earth, was shaking and moaning uncontrollably with malarial fever.

Although they were still only in, their teens, the two young Annamese had undergone a drastic change in appearance in the four years since the Sherman family had watched them gamboling around the cooking tent of their father, Ngo Van Loc, the hunting camp "boy" of Jacques Devraux. Woefully undernourished, their bodies were emaciated, pocked with sores, and eighteen months of unremitting labor in the dark, fever-ridden alleys of the rubber plantation had left their faces pinched and haggard. By day their sunken, listless eyes reflected the depth of an inner misery that would have been unthinkable to the exuberant youths of 1925.

In a lull of comparative quiet in the wind-driven roar of the rain, Hoc leaned towards his elder brother and put his lips close to his ear. "He's stopped shivering," he said in a horrified whisper. "Do you think he's died?"

In the near-total darkness Dong could not see the old coolie stretched out on the muddy floor beside them. He had been trembling violently for several hours but now no sound came from the place where he lay. Noticing that his Younger brother himself was shivering, Dong, who was taller than the average Annamese, inched his long, thin body closer to him and put his arm around his shoulders." Don't think about it. Maybe he's sleeping now. Let us try to get some sleep!"

The younger boy closed his eyes, but the sudden familiar gnaw of hunger pains drove all thought of sleep from his mind. It was six hours since they had shared their meager ration of black rice, boiled as usual in a rusting can on the communal fire inside the barrack hut. For cooking and drinking all the coolies had to use brackish water from the mosquito-infested streams that flowed sluggishly through the plantation, and Hoc wondered, as he did every time he found himself shivering, whether he too might have contracted the dreaded fever.

Dong, sensing his brother's fear, reached quietly behind him in the darkness with his free hand until his fingers brushed against the face of the malaria victim; the clammy flesh, already growing cold, was slippery with rain and the sweat of the fatal climatic fever, and in the moment that his hand recoiled from the contact Dong knew that they would not be able to avoid the horror of a burial this time. During their stay on the plantation more than a hundred coolies in Village Number Three had died of fever and malnutrition, or had committed suicide - but there had never been a death among their immediate neighbors.

Fleetingly Dong wondered whether the excursion into the jungle with the corpse might present them with another opportunity to escape. Then immediately he dismissed the thought. They had tried twice before, and on each occasion they had been pursued relentlessly through the forests by hostile Moi tribesmen who had stripped them naked, lashed their hands behind them and led them back to the plantation roped together at the neck with twisted creepers. The glowering Moi had been rewarded by the French plantation director with five piastres for each of them, and he and his brother had been publicly beaten on the soles of their feet by a group of overseers wielding heavy staves. Their swollen feet had bled profusely and they had hobbled painfully among the rubber trees for more than a month before they recovered. After the second escape attempt they were beaten again and flung into the blackness of stone-floored isolation cells in the nearby fort at An Dap. There they had spent fourteen days in solitary confinement, chained in heavy leg irons and fed only on dry rice. Never once during that time had they seen the light of day.

"Dong! We will have to bury him, won't we?" His brother spoke in a quavering voice close to his ear as though he had read his thoughts. The younger boy was trembling more violently now, and Dong feared he, too, was becoming feverish.

"Try to sleep, Hoc. I will make the grave. Don't worry."

A half 'mile away in the plantation director's house a scratchy rendition of "Muskrat Ramble" played by Louis Armstrong and Kid Ory was struggling to make itself heard over the roar of the monsoon rains. Gauze screens fitted to the doors and windows were tightly closed as always to deny the plantation's malaria- bearing mosquitoes access to the presence of Claude Duclos, a heavily built Corsican in his early forties who was sprawled in a wickerwork chair under the cooling breeze of an electric fan. A gla.s.s of iced cognac and soda dangled from his right hand and he listened to the jazz with an expression of seraphic contentment on his face. When the record ended he sat up and drained the last drop of his drink, then banged the empty tumbler loudly on the low, gla.s.s-topped table beside him.

While he waited for a response he got up and moved ponderously to the wind-up gramophone housed in a carved oaken cabinet in a corner of the room. He lifted the chromium-plated playing arm and with some difficulty replaced the worn needle with a fresh sliver of sharpened steel from a tiny tin. As he restarted the record, the door of the room opened and a young Annamese peasant girl entered. He turned and watched blearily as she walked to the table, picked up the empty gla.s.s and departed again without once raising her eyes to look at him, Her bare feet made no sound on the polished pine floor, and she moved with the smooth, unbobbing grace of the peasant pole carrier. She wore the "uniform" of a house congaie a long black skirt and a white blouse-cloth tied in the small of her back to leave her arms and shoulders bare; on her dark hair she wore a sc.r.a.p of cloth, also of white. Swaying slightly and humming tunelessly in time with the tinny notes of the recording, Duclos waited until the door closed quietly behind her, then made his way unsteadily back to his seat.

In the kitchen his congaie began preparing him another drink without hesitation, although she had noticed he was swaying on his feet. He had banged his gla.s.s on the table and it was not for her to disobey. He had indicated already he wished her to stay in the house for the night, and she knew well enough that the continued presence of her widowed mother and four brothers in the servants' quarters in the rear compound depended on her strict obedience to all the wishes of the plantation director in his house. Even so, a little frown of apprehension clouded her face as her thoughts strayed to the hours ahead. Normally, although his ma.s.sive body dwarfed her own, he showed her consideration in his bed, but she knew from the rare occasions when it had happened before that drinking heavily coa.r.s.ened his s.e.xual appet.i.tes. She had already refilled his gla.s.s five or six times but she had no idea why he was drinking so much. In the sudden hope that he might fall asleep without calling her, she poured a large extra measure of cognac into the gla.s.s before adding the soda.

In the main room of the house Duclos sat up suddenly in his chair, wondering why his drink was taking so long. As he looked about him his eye fell again on the telegraph message from Paris lying on the table beside him. Snorting angrily, he picked it up and read it aloud in a contemptuous voice: "Shareholders demand immediate explanation why production tonnage down last month. Essential you increase output at once to fill projected quota by year end."

He stared at the paper for a moment then crumpled it angrily into a ball and tossed it into a corner. Were the d.a.m.ned shareholders never satisfied? Average monthly production figures were higher than ever. Ten new vats had been installed since Christmas, there was a new dryer, the warehouse had been extended - and all this had been achieved despite the fact that twenty of the feeble "yellows" were still dying every month from malaria! Now because the output tonnage had fallen slightly for once, they wanted his blood! How did they think he could get more production from his work force if they allowed so little cash for its upkeep? If draft horses weren't fed sufficiently, they couldn't pull heavy loads, didn't they know that? If machinery wasn't serviced it broke down! He cursed the shareholders again, then looked up as the Annamese congaie appeared soundlessly beside him. She avoided his eyes as she placed the fresh drink on the table by his elbow, and the unchanging pa.s.sivity of her face enraged him suddenly without reason. A European woman might at least chastise him about his drinking! As if the jungle and the heat and the blasted "yellows" were not enough to endure in the G.o.dforsaken tropics! His intense irritation with his distant superiors transferred itself with an illogical rush to the silent girl, and he caught her by the arm. She halted, helpless in the grip of his ma.s.sive fist, but still she kept her eyes downcast. In his irrational anger he wanted to snap the lotus-stemmed wrist, and he tightened his grip until she winced. Then as soon as it had come, his anger subsided and he smiled.

With his free hand he pulled at the cheap cloth of her blouse until it slipped from her shoulders and bared her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. He stared at her for a moment, then motioned with his head towards the door. "Va te coucher," he said quietly. "Et deshabille-toi!"

Holding her arms modestly across her chest to cover her nakedness, she hurried obediently from the room. After she had gone he switched off the gramophone, drained his drink in a single gulp, then stooped to pick up the offending telegraph message. Smoothing out the paper he stood staring at it, reading it over and over again, all the while drumming his fingers agitatedly on the gramophone top. Then at last he straightened and squared his shoulders in resolution.

"All right!" he said vehemently, speaking aloud. "If Paris wants higher production this month at all costs, they shall have it! Let them learn the lessons of capitalism the hard way. The 'yellows' will have to start half an hour earlier from tomorrow and treat five hundred trees each - instead of three hundred and fifty! If they die faster, whose fault is it?"

He strode angrily from the room, slamming the door behind him, and when he reached the bedroom he found his lamp already lit. In blurred outline through the fine mesh of his muslin mosquito net he could see the dark shape of the Annamese peasant girl stretched naked on his bed. He pulled the net aside and looked down on her with greedy eyes. She had drawn one leg up so that her thigh hid the base of her belly from his view. Her head was turned away from him and she held her left arm across her face. Because she was reclining on her back, her small b.r.e.a.s.t.s lay flat on her boyish chest; only the nipples, purple shadows in the dull glow of the lamp, stood tautly erect, through fear.

Already distended in his excitement he had difficulty in removing his clothes. When he finally lowered the heavy bulk of his sweating body onto the bed beside her, his roughened hands pressed her small thighs wide and he forced himself into her immediately, ignoring her repeated cries of pain. For a few brief moments he reared and plunged on the bed, grunting like an animal, until his l.u.s.t emptied itself into her. Then his corpulent body collapsed and gradually the noise of his drunken snoring drowned out the quiet sobbing of the Annamese girl.

2.

A black mantle of pre-dawn darkness still cloaked the jungle and the rubber plantation villages when the Annamese cai who a.s.sisted the French plantation director and his European staff began sounding clamorous gongs outside the barrack huts. The coolies inside the fetid dens immediately began to stretch their stiffened limbs and drag themselves off their sodden mats, knowing that within minutes the cai would be among them flailing heavy staves to rouse the laggards.

Ngo Van Dong stumbled to his feet and helped his brother up quickly at the approach of the squat figure of Phat, the overseer of their barrack. He was one of a caste of brutish Annamese of low intelligence widely cultivated by the French colonizers to serve them as jailers, labor foremen and police. Phat was Duclos' particular favorite among the cai because the ruthless sadism with which he disciplined his fellow coolies was matched by the utter servility he showed to Duclos to ensure he retained both his approval and the necessary stamp of his authority. It was barely four o'clock when he entered the hut of the Ngo brothers and he waddled threateningly down the center of the earth floor towards them, shining his flashlight right arid left, looking for any excuse to employ his cane. As he drew near they heard the sickening crack of the rod striking flesh; once, twice they heard it fall but it brought no anguished shout of pain in response. Phat struck the motionless corpse of' the coolie who had died beside Hoc a third time before he realized that the wretched man had pa.s.sed forever beyond pain and productive labor. Without pause or sign of remorse he swung his flashlight on the brothers and raised his rod again. "Fetch rope and a spade and dispose of this stinking carca.s.s in the jungle! And be quick." The brutal face bulged as he yelled his order and he swung the rod again in a threatening arc. When they had gone Phat pulled a small notebook from his shirt pocket and with a little grunt of irritation made a mark in it beneath the number of the barrack hut.

Outside in the darkness Doug stopped and pressed his shivering brother against the flimsy wall of the barrack. "Stay here and hide! I will do the burial with Old Trung. Prepare our tools and take my dose of quinine at roll call as well as your own." He pressed into Hoc's hand the little ball of cold rice wrapped in a palm leaf that each of them always saved from the night before to give them strength to start the new day. "Eat my rice too - I'm not hungry this morning."

Hoc nodded dumbly as his brother sped away to fetch a spade and rope from the cai's quarters. When Dong returned he found the dead man was not heavy. An emaciated rice cropper from the Red River delta who had been forced south like many others because typhoons had recently inundated the rice lands, he had worked in the rubber plantation for less than a month before succ.u.mbing to the fever. Shocked and exhausted by the severity of the work and his illness, he had spoken little of himself or the family he had left behind in the north.

Old Trung, a toughened three-year contract coolie compelled to stay on in the plantation beyond the term because he had no money or clothes to leave, knotted the cord Dong had fetched around the neck of the cadaver with a deftness that betrayed his familiarity with the task. He picked up the dead man's only possession, a straw mat, and together he and Dong dragged the body out of the barrack and through the mud towards the jungle half a mile away. Phat escorted them, scowling and flailing their shoulders with his cane from time to time to speed their progress. "Take him at least a hundred meters into the jungle," he yelled as he swung the cane across their shoulders one last time to urge them in among the trees.

Only the faintest streaks of light were brightening the sky to the east, and by the time the two coolies had gone thirty or forty yards into the jungle, the overseer was lost to sight. Trung stopped immediately and motioned Dong to dig. "Work quickly. The tigers are always hungry at this hour."

Dong dug frantically with the shovel, lifting the heavy rain- soaked clods of earth with difficulty. it took him several minutes to make a hole only two to three feet deep. When he stopped for a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow, Trung laid a cautionary hand on his arm. "Listen!" They stood with rigid tension listening to the brooding silence of the jungle-all around them. "I'm sure I heard the rustle of an animal." Trung c.o.c.ked his head for a moment longer. Then he looked back at the hole in the ground. "That's enough! Take his feet."

Dong looked doubtfully at the inadequate grave. "But it isn't deep enough From behind Trung the distinct sound of movement in the underbrush reached their ears. "Take his feet I say. And quickly."

Dong did as he was told, and they dropped the lifeless body into the shallow impression in the ground. Trung untied the cord and wound it around his waist to return later to the overseer. Then he covered the dead coolie with his mat and helped Dong fling clods of earth rapidly on top of it with his hands. When they had finished, one foot of the dead man still protruded above the surface. Seeing this, Dong picked up the shovel and made to dig again.

"No! Come; it's enough!" Trung grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him bodily in the direction of the village. "You are too conscientious. It's a better and deeper grave than any I've seen. Let's run now or we will wind up alongside him."

Dong took one last look back and shuddered at the sight of the disembodied foot poking from the red jungle earth. He closed his eyes and offered an anguished prayer to his own ancestors and those of the dead man, begging their forgiveness. Then he turned and ran as fast as he could to catch up with Trung. By the time they had run the half-mile back to their barracks the tiger that had been stalking them in the penumbra had emerged from his cover. Without difficulty the animal unearthed the dead coolie by dragging at the protruding leg and disappeared again into the undergrowth. In the comfort of its lair its powerful jaws were soon mangling the puny chest and shoulders of the dead Annamese into a b.l.o.o.d.y pulp.

3.

When Dong and Old 'Trung fell into the roll call line on either side of Hoc outside their barrack hut, names had already been checked and the morning doses of quinine had been handed out. Hoc was pale, but shivering less violently. All five hundred coolies from Number Three Village were drawn up outside their barracks in long ranks; silent and apprehensive, they were wondering why they had been roused half an hour earlier and why the burly, intimidating figure of the plantation director, Duclos, was waiting to address the ma.s.sed roll call beneath the single lightpole in the barrack compound.

Their bruised shoulders and backs reminded them that the cai and the French a.s.sistants had been particularly vicious that morning. Had there been another ma.s.s breakout attempt in the night for which they were all to be punished? Or perhaps another of the cai living quarters had again been burned down by coolies in one of the other villages? Clutching their coupe-coupes, their tapping tools and their collecting cans, they waited dumbly, their eyes flicking from Duclos to the cane of the overseer nearest to them.

The plantation director was standing on an upturned crate that had been placed in position for him beneath the light, and despite the early hour he was already wearing his customary pith helmet, the sleeves' of his bush shirt were rolled high on his brown muscular arms and he was bare-legged in shorts, heavy jungle boots and short thick socks. Around his waist he wore a broad leather belt with a bone-handled knife clasped in a sheath and as usual in the presence of the coolies his right hand rested on its hilt as if it were a ceremonial sword. Filling his barrel chest with a deep breath, he glared around at the a.s.sembled crowd. "Twenty years ago there was not a single rubber tree in all Indochina," he roared. "Do you hear? Fifteen years ago this plantation where we live and work today was virgin jungle inhabited only by savage herds of elephants! We, the French, came twelve thousand miles across the sea. We built roads and villages and brought rubber trees and planted them for mile after mile through your wild land. We produced an oasis, of civilized industry in this fever-ridden wilderness!" He stopped, jammed his hands on his hips and leaned forward from the waist in a belligerent posture. "And we worked for many years before we collected a single cup of rubber, do you hear? Storms blew down the trees, fires ravaged the plantation, dry years killed our saplings - but we did not give up, we labored on!" He paused and drew himself up proudly to his full height again. "Today our plantations here have become the finest in all the Far East!"

The coolies shifted uneasily, their gaze never leaving the Corsican's face. The older ones among them who had heard similar harangues before had already sensed they were about to experience some harshening of their conditions.

I, Duclos, am responsible for the plantation of Vi An and I will not tolerate lazy, idle, work-shy 'yellows' here His lips curled contemptuously as he used the abusive French term Jaunes. "Last month our production fell because of your contemptible idleness. The shareholders in Paris are displeased. They expect 1929 to be the best year ever for rubber production. We have less than three months of the year left now, so from today the daily quota of trees to be treated by each one of you will be raised from three hundred and fifty to five hundred!" He stopped again and glared aggressively along the ranks of silent Annamese. "That is why you have been roused early. Five hundred trees each and every day you will treat from now on - or you will be punished with fines, you will be beaten and you will be clapped in irons in An Dap."

A young French a.s.sistant, who had been holding the white horse on which Duclos ranged the plantation each day, stepped forward at a signal from him and steadied the animal while he mounted. Swinging the horse's head to face the ma.s.sed coolies again, Duclos drew a long solid wood truncheon from a leather saddle scabbard and stood up in the stirrups.

"Go now! And don't return until you have completed your quota." As he shouted his order he spurred the horse forward suddenly towards the front ranks of the coolies, scattering them in the direction of the rubber groves.

It was still not yet five o'clock, and the trees themselves were scarcely distinguishable in the semidarkness. Dong and Hoc ran panting along the adjacent ranks allotted to them, calling out frequently to encourage one another and to check each other's progress. They had to run constantly to complete the first tapping of their three hundred and fifty trees in the five hours before ten o'clock. They spent only a minute or so at each tree, cleaning off dried latex, adjusting the collecting supports and making new incisions through which the day's latex could escape. They had to work fast but with care since poor incisions invariably brought a beating from the cai or the French.

At precisely ten o'clock a siren split the burning air above the plantation to indicate that collection of the latex was to begin. On hearing this, the brothers ran the two thousand meters back to the start of their rows and began visiting each tree in turn again to empty the cups into their carrying cans. When the cans were full they ran with them to one of the many collecting stations from which trucks transported the latex to the central warehouses.

By the time they had finished collecting it was midday: the sun was directly overhead and the rubber groves steamed with suffocating heat. Exhausted from seven hours of nonstop toil, the brothers flung themselves down on the red soil in the shade along with the other fifteen hundred coolies of the plantation and lay like dead men. When they had recovered they hurriedly cooked and ate the ration of cold rice they had brought with them from the barracks and swallowed a mouthful or two of water.

Usually they cleared underbrush and weeds from the rubber groves from one o'clock until sunset, hut the new quotas ordered by Duclos that morning meant they had had to tap and collect from more than a hundred extra trees through the hot afternoon although their energies were largely spent. Hoc's fever began to return halfway through the task, and Dong ran frantically back and forth between their adjoining rows, working his own and his brother's trees while Hoc rested. This saved Hoc from the beating that would inevitably have followed discovery of his shortcomings when the scowling overseers dipped their yardsticks into the cans at the collecting station.

It was nearly seven in the evening and the sun was setting behind their backs before the two weary, footsore brothers were able to limp back to their barracks in Number Three Village with their joint quota fulfilled. At the gates they found the cai a.s.sembling the whole labor force before the barrack huts to witness the public punishment of those who had failed to meet the new demands. The exhausted coolies stumbled against one another in panic as the overseers marshaled them into a circle with blows about the head and shoulders, A group of thirty or forty downcast men stood apart in the center of this' ring, their heads and arms hanging slack in att.i.tudes of despair.

Dong put a supportive arm around his brother and pulled him deeper into the crowd. There at least they would not have to see and hear the effect of the blows as clearly as those in front. Duclos was watching grimly from astride his horse, and a hush fell on the compound when he rose in his stirrups and lifted his own stave from its leather scabbard as a signal to the cai to begin.

The first batch of five coolies were flung face downward in the red dirt, and under the direction of the burly figure of Phat, half a dozen of his subordinates began lashing at the exposed soles of their bare feet. Their staves rose and fell steadily, the men swinging them high above their heads with a measured and deliberate rhythm born of long practice. Each coolie received a hundred blows, and only their m.u.f.fled cries of pain punctuated the regular thud of the staves.

Phat counted the strokes, darting an occasional glance at Due- los to ensure he retained his approval. On the hundredth blow he motioned his subordinates to cease and haul the moaning coolies upright.

'Nhanh nhu tho!" yelled Duclos, brandishing his own stave. "Now run like hares!"

The cai prodded the five men until they began hobbling on their swollen, bleeding feet around the edge of the circle formed by their fellows. One who fell was beaten again before being dragged upright and pushed on his way. The five Annamese, grunting with pain continued stumbling and staggering around the circle in grotesque imitation of bounding hares while the next group of victims were thrown down in the dirt.

As the punishments resumed, the sound of revving engines broke upon the scene and three open trucks crowded with new coolie laborers swung into the compound in a swirl of dust. A brightly polished black Citroen followed them in and drew up beside Duclos' horse. Phat looked inquiringly towards his master, wondering if the procedures should be halted, but the Corsican waved him on, gesturing peremptorily for the crowd to be moved back so that the new recruits could see what was happening.

Dong, because of his unusual height, had a clear view of the new arrivals above the heads of the crowd - and within a matter of seconds his startled eyes fell on two familiar faces that he had not seen for well over a year. The tall stoop-shouldered European in a white suit and felt hat who climbed from the gleaming car and offered a languid hand in greeting to Duclos he recognized first as Auguste Lepine, the director of the Indigenous Labor Recruitment Agency. Lepine had accompanied the cai who had lured him and his brother to the plantation eighteen months earlier, but despite the feeling of hatred the sight of him inspired Dong scarcely gave the recruiter a second glance. His astonished gaze was fixed on the second familiar face Staring out at the public floggings from amid the crowd of frightened coolies on the first truck, a face he hadn't seen for even longer - that of his own father!

4.

"Where on earth do you keep finding them, Auguste?" Claude Duclos wiped the champagne froth from his mustache with the back of his hand and refilled their gla.s.ses. "I heard a rumor you were deliberately smashing dikes in the north and flooding the paddies to drive the starving 'yellows' to our rubber trees. Is that right?"

Lepine's sallow features twitched and a sardonic smile flickered across his face, but he didn't reply. Instead he took a sheaf of glossy photographs from his portmanteau and pushed them across the table towards the Corsican. Duclos rattled the empty champagne bottle impatiently against the table-top as he picked them up. The oppressive heat was making both men sweat despite the breeze from the electric fan, and distant thunder presaged the early approach of the nightly storm. Duclos mopped his forehead with a handkerchief already soaked in perspiration before looking at the photographs.

Some showed neatly dressed Annamese families smiling from the doorways of houses set in small gardens beside groves of rubber trees. In other well-fed, well-clad workers were tapping trees while friendly, attentive Frenchmen in sun helmets looked indulgently over their shoulders. Duclos smiled grimly as he flicked through them. "Marvelous, mon vieux. Marvelous! You show them these, and then you have to put up barriers to stop them volunteering in their thousands, yes?"

"It's not quite as easy as that, Duclos," replied the recruiter testily "It's very hard work. Last year I supplied the plantations of Cochin-China and Annam with thirty-five thousand northern coolies - and shipped another ten thousand to the New Hebrides."

The Corsican whistled approvingly. "Forty-five thousand bodies! And you make a fifteen-piastre profit on each one, don't you? That's nearly seven hundred thousand piastres He closed his eyes to calculate then opened them and whistled softly again. "About seven million francs - not a bad profit for the year, Auguste." He smiled and made a little admiring gesture with his hand that took in Lepine's well-cut linen suit, his handmade shoes and silk shirt. "No wonder, Auguste, you can afford to dress now like an English lord."

"If your wastage rate on these plantations wasn't so high, there would be no need for me to supply you with new coolies all the time," said Lepine sourly. "If you treated them better, they wouldn't be mutilating their hands and feet at the rate they are, to escape your clutches." He glanced at another sheaf of papers. "Your fever deaths too are high again - or are they mostly concealed suicides?"

Duclos, taken aback by Lepine's hostility, sat up indignantly in his seat. "The fashion for voluntary mutilation is being stamped out, Auguste. They know that we send them straight to the cells at An Dap now, no matter how badly they injure themselves. And can I help it if so many 'yellows' die of fever in their own country?" He shrugged helplessly. "I have to drive them hard. Always the shareholders in Paris want higher production. Already they've had six million francs' profit from an investment of twelve million - but always they want more."

Lepine yawned and pa.s.sed a hand wearily across his face. "You talk of the shareholders in Paris as though you yourself owned no shares in the plantation," he said slightingly. "Perhaps it is most convenient to imagine you are doing all that you do here at the behest of some distant ogre."

"My holding is very small, Auguste," protested Duclos with a little laugh of embarra.s.sment. "Compared with the major share- holdings, it is nothing." He looked at the stiff unbending features of the recruiter for a moment: the dark hollows around his eyes and his dry, parchment like skin betrayed a long addiction to opium, and Duclos guessed that hi irritability stemmed for this. "But why should we endure the h.e.l.l of life in the colonies, mon vieux, if we don't enjoy ourselves a little and try to put something by for our old age at the same time, heh?" The Corsican, straining to inspire conviviality in his guest, picked up his champagne gla.s.s and held it towards him, inviting him to drink to the idea. But the recruiter steadfastly ignored him.

At that moment a clap of thunder exploded directly overhead as the storm burst and rain began beating noisily against the outside of the house. Both men listened to it for a moment, then Duclos stood up restlessly and walked over to his gramophone. "Perhaps we need a little jazz, Auguste," he said, winding the mechanism vigorously. "I find it is the only thing which will keep the cafard at bay when I'm alone. I try not to drink too much when n.o.body's here. Without my jazz I don't think I would survive the tropics. What would you prefer? Sidney Bechet's saxophone? I have 'Wild Cat Blues' or 'Kansas City Man.'"

Lepine shrugged indifferently, and the plantation director put on a record of his own choice. He stood listening attentively for a moment as the saxophone vied with the noise of the storm outside; then he returned to his seat, picked up his champagne gla.s.s and drained it. "Another fashion we are stamping out or the plantation, Auguste, is Bolshevism," he said, leaning earnestly towards the recruiter. "Did you hear about the trouble the big Michelin plantation as Phu Rieng has been having with 'red peril' agitators?"

"I've been in the Pacific islands for a month looking at the plantations there," replied Lepine in an uninterested voice. The jazz coming from the gramophone was irritating him and in his limbs the uneasiness familiar to smokers of opium was beginning to take hold.

"There was a ma.s.s breakout two weeks ago and the cai uncovered an attempt to organize a strike. Half-a-dozen coolies have been clapped in irons -a.s.sorted Bolsheviks and members of something called the 'Viet Nam Quoc Dan Dang' -- the Nationalist Party." He snorted with contempt. "My Overseers keep their eyes peeled here, I can tell you. The slightest suspicion of trouble and we run them into An Dap so fast their yellow feet don't touch the ground." He laughed mirthlessly, hoping to persuade Lepine to share his black humor. "You didn't bring any Comintern infiltrators with that load today, did you, Auguste?"

"Just getting coolie labor to you here is difficult enough, Duclos," snapped the recruiter. "I can't give you guarantees about their political purity."

At that moment the door opened to admit the barefoot Annamese congaze carrying a fresh bottle of chilled Perrier-Jouet champagne. She filled Duclos' empty gla.s.s un.o.btrusively and retreated silently towards the door. As he picked up his drink Duclos looked meaningfully at Lepine and raised an inquiring eyebrow in her direction.

Lepine dropped his gaze. "Can she prepare a pipe?"

"Of course,"

"Then for that alone, I will require her." The recruiter spoke his words with careful deliberation, peering intently into the froth of his champagne. Then he added: "And do I understand correctly that you don't keep a 'boy' in your house?"

Duclos looked puzzled for a second. Then comprehension dawned and he bristled. "I have no need of 'boys' in my house," he said brusquely. "That's not one of my vices."

"Really, Duclos, you surprise me." The tone of the recruiter remained confident, unabashed. "It might perhaps be worth considering who controls your supply of coolie labor now. I tend to remember first the requirements of those plantations that care to provide the best hospitality when I pay a visit."

Duclos' eyes narrowed as he registered the undisguised threat in the recruiter's words; then he forced a laugh to his lips. "I am a man of the world Auguste, mon ami. I'm sure we can find a pretty young thing for you."

A hundred yards away across the rain-drowned compound Dong and Hoc were weeping openly as they embraced their father in the blackness of their leaking barrack lint. Huddled together on the muddy earth floor they were content for a long time to embrace one another without speaking.

"How, did you find us, Father?" sobbed Dong at last. He strained his eyes but could make out no more than the vague outline of Ngo Van Loc's face in the darkness.

"The party helped me trace you - the Viet Nam Quoc Dan Dang. It's a new secret organization of nationalists and patriots working to free us from the French!" The older man paused and his voice took on a faint note of censure. "But how did you come to be here?"