A Dangerous Language

by Sulari Gentill

  Rowland made his way back to the lower decks, arriving at the cabin just as Clyde was making plans to go find him. “Rowly, thank God!”

  “Is Quinlan not back, yet?” Rowland asked rather redundantly. A man the size of Quinlan could not possibly be in the tiny cabin and remain unseen.

  “The Southern Cross,” Kisch said knowingly. “How is your dear mama, Rowland?”

  “She seems well and in fine spirits,” Rowland replied. He locked the door. “Clyde—Henry Alcott’s on board.”

  “What? I thought he’d… actually I’m not sure what I thought had happened to the bloke. I just didn’t expect we’d ever see him again.”

  “Who is this Alcott?” Kisch asked. The expressions of his cabin-mates left him in no doubt that the man’s presence was not welcome.

  Between them, Rowland and Clyde told him of their association with Alcott, such as it was.

  “And he was never punished for trying to kill you?” Kisch asked, astounded.

  “It was complicated,” Rowland admitted. “In the end both Alcott and I stayed out of gaol.”

  “And you have not seen him since?”

  Rowland shook his head. “I understood he’d gone to Queensland. Perhaps he’s returning to Sydney—though he appears to be taking a rather circuitous route.”

  “Do you think it has anything to do with Egon?” Clyde asked.

  Rowland leant back against the frame of the bunks. “Delaney mentioned some new group of Fascists who’d been writing letters to the Commissioner complaining about Bolsheviks in Canberra. The letters were signed by D. King… I didn’t place it at the time.”

  Clyde sat up. “As in Diamond King?”

  “I don’t understand,” Kisch shook his head violently as if he were trying to dislodge whatever it was that prevented him from understanding.

  Rowland explained. “Henry Alcott was once a member of a vigilante group called the Fascist Legion whose mission was to set upon and brutalise Communists. The identities of individuals within the group were kept secret by wearing black robes and pointed hoods, but they identified themselves and each other with playing cards. Alcott was the Diamond King.” He shrugged. “Perhaps Smith, Brown and Lamb have joined him in some resurrection of the Fascist Legion.”

  “Terrific. Now there are four Fascist lunatics on board!” Clyde muttered.

  “At least four Fascist lunatics,” Kisch corrected despondently. “A child, a small child, threw a stone at me today!”

  “Good Lord!” Rowland said, frowning. “Where did the little brat get a stone out here?”

  Despite himself, Kisch smiled.

  Clyde rubbed his face wearily. “So what do you think is going on, Rowly?”

  “Milt said something a while ago… The Fascist Legion, and all their like-minded friends, didn’t simply disappear when Eric Campbell’s New Guard lost momentum.” He lay back in his berth with his hands behind his head. “To be honest, I haven’t given Alcott much thought in the past two years. But once he was angry enough to kill me.”

  “Having Ed fire on him might have brought on an epiphany,” Clyde said without any real conviction.

  “Miss Higgins tried to shoot this man?” Kisch was growing increasingly alarmed by the revelations of his cabin-mates.

  “To save me,” Rowland said.

  “Sadly, she shot Rowly instead,” Clyde added.

  “It was an accident,” Rowland explained. “She’s rather prickly about the subject. Best not mention it to her.” He rolled over onto his side. “My point is… actually it was Milt’s point originally, but I tend to think he’s right. The men in the Fascist Legion did not stop being Communist-hating thugs in 1932. I expect the way it all turned out only exacerbated Alcott’s particular animosity against me.”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” Kisch interrupted. “Was not this Alcott your late brother’s comrade? Why then does he wish to murder his friend’s brother?”

  “I believe Alcott felt I was betraying both my family and my brother’s memory by mixing with the likes of Milt and Clyde.”

  “I see.” Kisch pulled at his moustache, twirling one end as he absorbed the situation. “So these bloody bastards… they are after you?”

  Clyde shrugged. “I can’t see why Smith, Brown and Lamb would have come on board if they were just after Rowly. How long has Alcott been on board, Rowly?”

  “Mother and Aunt Mildred only encountered him for the first time this evening, so my guess is Fremantle.”

  “Do you think these men knew that Egon would be banned?”

  Rowland shook his head. “Haven’t the foggiest. But they’d know now… so presumably their only purpose for boarding, once it was clear that Egon had been banned, is to ensure he never sets foot on Australian soil, one way or another.”

  Egon sighed.

  “Don’t worry, Egon,” Clyde nudged the dejected activist. “The Kisch Reception Committee will be unleashing all kinds of hell on your behalf.”

  Stanley Quinlan returned to the modest cabin at about midnight. Rowland admitted him, with Clyde standing by ready to fight should it not be Quinlan. The farmer, having successfully shown a young lady the Southern Cross several times that evening, was in an excellent temper, if a little tired. He climbed onto the bunk above Egon, cursed at his boots as he pulled them off, and murmured a grateful prayer before falling almost immediately into a noisy slumber.

  It was also Stanley Quinlan who woke them the next morning with another prayer spoken aloud before he rolled out of his bunk.

  “What time is it?” Rowland murmured, part question, part complaint.

  “It’s gone five o’clock, mate,” Quinlan answered. “Get a move on, you blokes. Time to storm the washroom before the hordes get up.”

  Quinlan, it seemed, advocated the rural custom of early rising to beat the congestion at morning ablutions. And so it was, half asleep, that the three Australians and the Czechoslovak used the baths and shaving basins. They were finished before the halls began to fill with half-dressed men and women in gaudy silk kimonos, and they could only commend the farmer’s timely tactics.

  As they made their way up to the Tourist dining room for breakfast they discussed their strategy for the day. It was decided that Stanley Quinlan would stay with Egon that morning in the Tourist smoking saloon where there would be plenty of people at their correspondence, playing cards, or completing crosswords as they smoked. Rowland and Clyde intended to slip into First Class to locate Smith, Brown and Lamb, and perhaps to ascertain what Alcott was up to.

  They left Egon and Stanley eating breakfast with a real estate agent from Darwin and a fifteen-year-old Indian lad travelling alone to Melbourne for the International Scout Jamboree. When they were stopped by a crew member at the entrance to the First Class dining room, Rowland told the white-gloved steward that he and Clyde had been invited to join his mother and aunt for breakfast. A moment to check with Mrs. Sinclair and they were seated.

  “We must have forgotten we invited you to join us at breakfast,” Mildred said, squeezing lemon onto her pancakes.

  Rowland grinned. “We are adequately dressed, I hope, Aunt Mildred.”

  Mildred sniffed. Elisabeth Sinclair was so delighted to see them that she was not inclined to quibble over invitations. Instead she chatted happily to Clyde of the tropical flowers she had painted in Singapore and Ceylon. Rowland scanned the dining room as it started to fill. Of course, not all the five hundred odd First Class passengers would breakfast at once and so he was not particularly surprised when he didn’t spot any of the men he sought. Quietly, Rowland enquired of the nurses who travelled with his mother about her health.

  “Don’t you be worrying, Mr. Sinclair,” Maggie O’Hara said as she piled smoked salmon onto her English crumpet. “Mrs. Sinclair is in very good health and for the most part she knows her own mind. Despite what she says, this trip has done her the world of good.”

  “And her decision to return early?”

  “Your mother miss
ed Mr. Isaacs terribly… and you too of course, sir.”

  Rowland laughed. “I see.”

  “Rowly.” Clyde’s eyes flickered to the entrance. Rowland followed his gaze. One of the three, Smith, Brown or Lamb—of course they had no idea which—and Henry Alcott. Deep in their own conversation neither man looked in their direction.

  Rowland moved to stand. Clyde reached out and pulled him down. “Not a good idea, Rowly.”

  Rowland said nothing. His eyes flashed furiously.

  “If we start something here,” Clyde warned under his breath, “the captain will have us in chains before we know it.”

  Still Rowland did not respond, his gaze fixed on Alcott.

  “Rowly, I’m serious. This is not the time to settle the score.”

  Rowland gritted his teeth, frustrated. In their present company he was denied even the small satisfaction of cursing. “Yes… you’re right, of course.”

  “Do you think they know we’re aboard?”

  Rowland shrugged. “Perhaps not. We’re not on the passenger manifest having purchased our tickets so late. The gentlemen we swapped with are probably still listed as sharing Egon’s cabin.”

  “That could be to our advantage,” Clyde said, still concerned his friend would challenge Alcott.

  Rowland was not so sure. “Knowing Egon is not unprotected might give them pause.”

  “What are you proposing, Rowly?”

  “Why don’t we join them?” Before Clyde could reply or, more likely, protest, Rowland made their excuses to his mother and aunt. “We’d best go say hello to Henry Alcott since he’s on board.”

  “I thought you said he was undesirable,” Mildred said sharply.

  “He is,” Rowland replied. “But unless I speak with him, he’s likely to keep bothering you ladies. I believe he’s looking for investors for one of his schemes.”

  That was enough for Mildred who, as Rowland well knew, had learned by experience to be wary of gentlemen looking for finance.

  And so they took their leave and walked briskly towards the table at which Alcott and his companion were seated.

  “Alcott. It’s been a long time,” Rowland said brusquely as he took a seat. Clyde grabbed the fourth chair. “I don’t believe you’ve met my friend—Clyde Watson Jones.”

  Clyde nodded. “Charmed.”

  Alcott was visibly startled. His companion rose. Clearly neither gentleman had been expecting to see Rowland Sinclair.

  “Sit down.” Rowland met the man’s eye. “Are you Smith, Brown or Lamb?”

  Glancing at Alcott, who nodded, the man resumed his seat and admitted, “Lamb.”

  “Well, Mr. Lamb, I thought it might be best if we had a chat with you and Mr. Alcott, since we’re all here.”

  “What do you want, Rowly?” Alcott said frostily.

  Rowland leant back in his chair, refusing to be hurried. “I’m curious. Was it you who stabbed me in Melbourne, Mr. Lamb?”

  Lamb smiled and sipped the glass of whisky beside his eggs and bacon. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sinclair.”

  “You’re here for Kisch?” Alcott accused. “You haven’t learned have you, Rowly? Still backing the wrong horse.”

  “Perhaps.” Rowland kept his eyes on Alcott; Clyde watched Lamb. “He’s been excluded, Henry. So you can leave him alone.”

  “I suppose you’re going to tell me that your Commie friends are happy to leave it at that. That they’ll be content to accept the decision of the sovereign government of the Commonwealth of Australia.” Alcott laughed. “I’m afraid we’re not so daft as to rely on you bloody Red mongrels to accept the king’s laws. You’ll find that many good men live by an oath to protect those laws.”

  “The king’s laws also protect Egon Kisch,” Rowland snarled.

  “We wouldn’t dream of breaking the law, Rowly. Of course, from what I’ve heard, there are accidents at sea all the time.”

  “Do you really think you’d get away with that, Henry?”

  “Oh, you wouldn’t believe what I’ve got away with, Rowly.”

  Clyde intervened as the tension rose. “The fact is, Mr. Alcott, we’re not going to let you anywhere near Egon Kisch without making a great deal of noise.”

  “You may find, Jones, that many of our fellow passengers will become suddenly deaf in circumstances related to a dangerous Communist agitator here to cause trouble and destroy the Australian way of life.”

  31

  NATION-WIDE COMMEMORATION

  ARMISTICE DAY OBSERVANCE IN ALL STATES

  DEDICATION OF VICTORIA’S MEMORIAL

  DUKE’S PART IN IMPRESSIVE CEREMONIAL

  Armistice Day, commemorated throughout Australia since that fateful day in 1918, was remembered in church observance in all States yesterday. From the vast concourse of 300,000 who watched the Duke of Gloucester dedicate the Shrine of Remembrance in Melbourne to the tiny hamlets of Tasmania, Armistice Day, 1918, marking the cessation of four years of war, was recalled vividly, and coupled with the recollection was the fervent hope that its continued observance would remind a nation of its duty to those affected by war, and would strengthen the will for peace.

  Victoria’s centre of commemoration—marking a solemn climax to an impressive Royal tour in the State—was the scene of amazing orderliness and precision. His Royal Highness, accompanied only by leaders of the State and representatives of returned soldiers, entered the Inner Shrine, unlocking the formidable door with a golden key, and reverently placed on the Rock of Remembrance the wreath despatched in Royal keeping by His Majesty the King. Afterwards the Duke of Gloucester dedicated the Shrine.

  The Mercury, 12 November 1934

  When the R.M.S. Strathaird moored at Adelaide, it was greeted by what seemed to be the entire population of the city on an outing to see the controversial stranger, shake his hand and take his photograph. German farmers, now living in the districts surrounding Adelaide, stood on the dock to greet him. A jostling, excited gaggle of reporters boarded, each in hope of an interview with the great man. Kisch was consequently obliged to give what amounted to a press conference, in the middle of which, he received a trunk call from the Melbourne Star.

  All this, Egon took in his stride, speaking with wit and passion and not a little showmanship. He spoke of celebrated German writers who were persecuted and murdered by the Nazis. He told the crowd of the inquisitorial methods of the Gestapo, about men who were tortured to death in concentration camps and of great minds languishing still behind barbed wire. He spoke of Ernst Thalmann, leader of the German Communist Party, who had once received six million votes as a candidate for president, but who despite or possibly because of this, had been kept in solitary confinement since May the previous year, forbidden even to read or write. Kisch told the crowd then of the ten thousand anti-Fascists who had suffered the same fate. He gave them an account of the German workers who had been beheaded or “shot while attempting to escape”. And he gleefully punctuated his address with the liberal use of the Australian adjective which delighted him so. In this way Egon held court on the deck for the time the Strathaird was moored in Adelaide.

  Throughout, Clyde, Rowland and Stanley Quinlan remained within reach of the Czechoslovakian journalist, watching the crowd for any sign of trouble. Alcott and his associates were present on the deck, but the tight press of journalists and photographers made it impossible to get too close.

  “What do you think?” Clyde murmured to Rowland as Kisch described the brutality of the German regime.

  Rowland watched as the reporters hung off Kisch’s every word, scribbling in their notebooks, nodding unconsciously as they did so. Since they had escaped from Germany, Rowland had himself carried the same message but he’d found no audience. “I think that it’s worth doing whatever is necessary to allow Egon to speak, to be heard by as many people as possible. They’re actually listening to him, Clyde.”

  Clyde braced Rowland’s shoulder companionably. He knew how hard Rowland had tried to make
people understand what was happening under the Nazis, how much he had risked to do so, but though Sinclair connections had given Rowland access to the highest offices, he had been dismissed as a hysterical troublemaker working to a Communist agenda. Of course that was also what the Lyons government claimed of Egon Kisch, but the circumstances of the journalist’s arrival were, it seemed, creating a great deal of public interest.

  Even so, the Kisch Reception Committee was unsuccessful in its attempts to have the ban on the Czechoslovak lifted so that he could disembark in Adelaide, and the liner cast off with Egon Kisch still aboard. The Strathaird continued its journey towards Melbourne, and was still at sea when the National Congress against War and Fascism opened with only an empty chair for its principal speaker. This failure they all felt keenly.

  “We did everything we could,” Clyde said as they commiserated with Kisch in the Tourist saloon.

  “I don’t know,” Rowland murmured. “Perhaps we should have made a run for it in Adelaide.”

  “Don’t be daft—they would have arrested us all.”

  “But Egon would have been in Australia. As it is the Strathaird is our prison.”

  On board, attitudes towards Kisch had become more hostile since the stop in Adelaide. Newspapers collected in the port revealed the furore the activist was causing. His friends in the reception committee—now called the Kisch Defence Committee—had issued a writ of habeas corpus and charged the captain of the Strathaird with kidnapping. Many passengers chose sides and it was no longer just the four men from First Class about whom Rowland and Clyde were concerned. A group of Italians took the journalist’s stance against Fascists rather personally and employed every chance to make their discontent known. Stanley Quinlan remained loyal to his friends, happy to defend Kisch with his fists whenever the opportunity rose, and it was he who quite enthusiastically became the journalist’s champion against the Fascisti when fisticuffs broke out.