A Dangerous Language

by Sulari Gentill

  Rowland dismissed the throbbing pain below his ribs, telling himself that it was not that bad. He demanded to see the captain immediately. “You tell Captain Carter,” he said angrily, “that since the court has seen fit to leave Egon Kisch in his control, I intend to hold him responsible for the gentleman’s safety!”

  “But…”

  “Where exactly is Herr Kisch? Surely if the man has broken his leg he should be here in the infirmary?”

  “Even if his leg was actually broken, there’s nothing the doctor can do for him, sir. He was taken to his cabin.”

  “Good Lord, that’s barbaric! What the devil are you people thinking?”

  “Nobody asked Herr Kisch to jump,” the nurse said again. “It’s entirely his own fault.”

  Rowland rubbed the back of his neck, appalled. “Unlike Mr. Kisch, we are not under arrest, so if it’s all the same to you, we’ll wait for the captain in our cabin.”

  “The captain said you weren’t to leave—”

  “You have my word as a gentleman that we will not leave the cabin until we’ve seen Captain Carter.”

  “I don’t think…”

  “And if another passenger feels unwell?” Rowland asked, trying to reach her with reason. “You can hardly deny him medical attention because the infirmary is being used as a prison.”

  The nurse wavered. He stepped past her to the door and opened it. There were a couple of stewards outside. Hardly security—they could not, either of them, have been twenty years old. If that was all that was keeping Alcott and his men confined, Egon Kisch might be dead already.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen, if you don’t mind stepping aside we will be adjourning to our cabin.”

  The young stewards were plainly startled. They looked to the nurse for direction. She shrugged. “Escort them to the cabin. I’ll inform the captain.”

  34

  A NEW “NEW GUARD”

  It is unlikely that investigation will show the slightest foundation for the story that there has been brought into being an organisation known as the Commonwealth Legion which is arming itself with rifles and machine guns. But the statement having been made in the Senate it becomes the duty of the Federal Government to investigate it and, in particular, to ascertain whether or not military equipment is getting into hands for which it is not intended. Senator Collings, of Queensland, tabled last week a document alleged to be a report of the Legion, described as a Fascist organisation. In that document, which was typewritten and unsigned, were set out the aims and activities of the organisation and the location of arms belonging to it. According to the Senator its strongholds are Queensland and New South Wales. An unsigned, typewritten document is not much upon which to go, and it might be thought that it should be ignored by those in authority; but if it is allowed to go unchallenged it will quickly take on the appearance of authenticity and the at present unsubstantiated legion will be “an armed force of many thousands ready to use force to create a Fascist dictatorship.” The Minister of Defence has promised that he will enquire at once into the statements insofar as they affect the distribution of military equipment. If these statements are incorrect the rest of the story may be discounted. Whether Senator Collings’ “disclosure” is a matter for action or mirth hinges on the one point as to arms.

  Examiner, 19 November 1934

  Wilfred Sinclair was not in a mood to speak with any of his brother’s Bolshevik friends. He might have refused to see them altogether if his mother had not already admitted the pair to his suite at the Windsor. When Wilfred strode in, he found Edna and Milton taking tea with Elisabeth Sinclair and her sister-in-law. He may have asked Isaacs to leave immediately, but the presence of the ladies made it difficult to do so in a manner the long-haired layabout may have understood.

  “Mr. Sinclair,” Edna stood as he came in. “May I have a word, please?”

  “I’m very busy, Miss Higgins.”

  “I really must speak with you, Mr. Sinclair.” There was something in her tone that told Wilfred she was prepared to be difficult.

  “Mr. Sinclair,” Milton began.

  “Very well, Miss Higgins,” Wilfred ignored Milton. “If you’d care to come with me. Perhaps we can speak in the other room.”

  “Oh yes,” Elisabeth chirped. “Do chat elsewhere. Mr. Isaacs was just about to recite for us.”

  As Milton entertained the old ladies, Wilfred and Edna stepped into an adjoining office. Furnished with an ornate, green leather inlaid desk and captain’s chairs, the room was designed to accommodate those guests who needed to conduct business from the Windsor, in a manner befitting.

  He invited the sculptress to take a seat. “What can I do for you, Miss Higgins?”

  For a moment Edna didn’t know quite where to start. “Henry Alcott is on the Strathaird,” she blurted.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Edna told him everything as she knew it. Wilfred listened silently.

  “You see, Mr. Sinclair, Rowly didn’t plan to board the ship. He meant only to fly Egon back to Melbourne… but when he saw the men who had stabbed him board he didn’t have a choice.”

  “I think you’ll find he did have a choice, Miss Higgins. He chose poorly.”

  Edna was not going to allow that. “He did not!” she said, flaring. “He chose exactly as you would have done if one of your friends was in danger, if a man who once saved your life needed help! He chose exactly as any decent man would!”

  “Where is Rowly now?” Wilfred said after a moment.

  “He’s still on the ship… with Mr. Watson Jones.”

  Wilfred opened his briefcase and extracted the evening edition of the Age. “Have you seen the newspaper, Miss Higgins?” He pointed out the item.

  Edna scanned the article. “Oh my God! Herr Kisch jumped… He’s here?”

  “If you read on, Miss Higgins, you’ll see that he has been returned to the Strathaird.”

  “But he’s hurt!”

  “The Supreme Court of Victoria dismissed his appeal. The ban has been upheld.”

  “Regardless, Mr. Sinclair, we are a civilised country!” Edna said fiercely. “We take injured people to hospital—we don’t press-gang them onto ships!”

  “Calm yourself, Miss Higgins. It’s possible that if Kisch attempted to leave the ship, Rowly may in fact have disembarked more successfully.”

  “Rowly wouldn’t leave the ship without Herr Kisch. Not while Mr. Alcott is aboard.”

  Wilfred stood and moved to look out of the window. “Committed,” he muttered under his breath. “I should have him jolly well committed!”

  “I think prison would be more appropriate. Mr. Alcott is a very dangerous man.”

  “I was talking about Rowly, Miss Higgins.”

  “Oh.”

  Wilfred sighed. Noting the alarmed width of Edna’s eyes, he added more assuringly, “I’ll have a message sent to the ship somehow, warn the captain that Alcott is not what he may appear. I expect Captain Carter will be delighted to know that he has more than one criminal on board!”

  “Herr Kisch is not a criminal,” Edna interrupted. “Unless you were talking about Rowly again…”

  Wilfred paused, surprised that he was more amused than irritated by the sculptress’ impertinence. “I fear both gentlemen may be relying on technicalities in that regard.”

  Edna smiled.

  Wilfred continued before the exchange could thaw more than he wished. “I’ll have Alcott and his men removed from the ship in Sydney one way or another. But Rowly may have to resign himself to disembarking without Herr Kisch, unless he plans to sail on to Europe!”

  Rowland and Clyde found Egon Kisch in one of the lower berths of the cabin. A linen sling had been secured to the bed above so that he could pull himself up. Someone had helped him undress and change into a nightshirt. He lay on top of the blankets—unable to bear the weight of any covering on his injured leg. The limb in question was red and blue, and untreated. Kisch’s forehead was covered in a sheen of sweat
, and his eyes were glazed with pain and fever.

  Rowland cursed.

  “This man needs immediate medical attention,” he told the stewards, who remained outside the door.

  “The doctor’s been to see him, sir. Nothing can be done without an X-ray machine.”

  “That’s not good enough. The man’s in agony.”

  “Nobody asked him to jump, sir.”

  Frustrated, Rowland closed the door. This was unbelievable. Melbourne was marking its centenary with an act of medieval cruelty.

  Clyde held a glass to Egon’s lips so he could drink.

  “Merci, Madame Denise,” Kisch said.

  “Egon, it’s me—Clyde.”

  Kisch responded in French.

  “What did he say?” Clyde asked Rowland.

  “Something about a room and an aviator,” Rowland replied. “He seems to think you are his landlady.”

  “Herr Strauss!” Egon waved Rowland over. “I know, I know… you have never yet sent a man to the gallows… but I tell you, I don’t want to see Ussakowski or Trebitsch…”

  Clyde glanced at Rowland who could only shrug. It seemed Egon was hallucinating. Perhaps the doctor had given him something for the pain, or perhaps it was the fever.

  They did what they could to make him comfortable, which was little enough. Aside from whisky, conversation was all they could offer to distract him from the pain. Egon continued to address them as Strauss and Madame Denise, and they did not argue.

  In time, someone knocked on the door of the cabin. Rowland answered while Egon complained about the noise of the typewriters. A young woman’s voice responded to Rowland’s precautionary enquiry on the caller’s identity. Once admitted, she claimed to have been sent by the Kisch Defence Committee to stay with Egon Kisch. She offered as proof a ticket to New Zealand which she had purchased to get around the Strathaird’s refusal to carry coastal passengers, as well as her Party identification. It appeared the committee was concerned that Egon would be transferred to another ship at sea and disappear before the liner reached Sydney.

  “My name is Gwendolyn, comrades.”

  Egon seemed to regard her as a rather pleasant apparition.

  She assured him that she was real, and informed them that an appeal would be lodged in Sydney, the prospects of which were considerably brighter. Further, she continued, a draft of the speech Egon was to give the congress, and which he had passed to Bluey Howells earlier, would be printed as a pamphlet to be distributed in Sydney before the Strathaird arrived. The news seemed to cheer Egon somewhat. Finally, and most triumphantly, Gwendolyn informed them that Gerald Griffin, the other banned delegate who had snuck back into the country, was addressing a group of Newcastle miners that very night.

  “Won’t he be arrested?” Clyde asked.

  “We have taken precautions,” Gwendolyn said, smiling. “In any case the police are unlikely to arrest Comrade Gerald in a room full of miners.”

  It was midnight when Rowland walked Gwendolyn back to her cabin.

  “Please be careful,” he warned. “There are men aboard intent on harming Egon and anyone who may help him.”

  “I have not approached him on deck, Mr. Sinclair. I have been nothing but a fellow passenger.”

  “Until this evening when you brought comfort to an injured man. Please be careful Miss—”

  “Gwendolyn,” she said firmly. “If you cannot call me comrade, then it must be Gwendolyn. I promise you, Rowland, I will not put myself at risk.”

  The message from the captain was delivered via a steward early the next morning. Captain Carter was happy to grant Mr. Sinclair’s request for a meeting, but it would have to be in his office.

  Having already been led into one ambush by a steward with a message, Rowland refused, sending a return missive through the same steward that it would be more convenient if the captain came to him. Some minutes later, the steward knocked again.

  “Captain Carter regrets that he cannot attend your cabin at this time. He would be happy to receive you at noon if that is more suitable for you, sir.”

  Rowland cursed, exasperated. “Tell him I’ll be there.”

  “What are you doing, Rowly?” Clyde asked once the steward had gone. “Alcott and his mates will simply throw you overboard at noon instead.”

  “I’m not going at noon—I’m going now. If that message was from the captain I’ll be unfashionably early, and if not I won’t be wandering into a trap.”

  “I don’t know, Rowly…”

  Rowland glanced at Egon who was muttering about typewriters again. “There’s got to be something more they can do for him, Clyde. If the captain won’t come here…”

  Clyde groaned. “I still don’t like it. Be bloody careful.” He sighed. “I wish we’d thought to bring your gun.”

  Rowland grimaced. “I’m not sure an act of piracy would help matters.” He grabbed his hat from where he’d tossed it on the upper bunk, turning away to wince as that careless extension of his arm incited a piercing pain in his side. There was nothing to be gained by having Clyde worry further. Egon Kisch’s injury was more pressing. “I won’t be long.”

  As most of the passengers were at breakfast, the corridors and stairwells seemed deserted. Rowland remained wary, moving quickly but cautiously towards the exclusive First Class B Deck on which Captain Carter had his office. As the steward had been heading there to deliver his message, Rowland assumed he would find the captain in.

  Once again his attire and his lack of interest in the opulence of the deck ensured his presence in this part of the ship was not particularly noticed or questioned. As he neared the captain’s quarters, Rowland saw there were a number of stewards standing outside the door. He relaxed a little—he would have help in the event of another ambush… unless of course all the stewards were Fascists. He dismissed the thought as unlikely—the stewards were for the most part youths from the subcontinent where Fascism was almost unheard of.

  “Captain Carter summoned me,” Rowland told the steward standing before the door.

  The young man glanced nervously at the door. “The captain—”

  “I’ll just go in and see what he wants, shall I?” Rowland opened the door before he could be stopped.

  The cabin was decorated in an ostensibly maritime tradition: an imposing desk heavy enough to resist the motion of the sea, shelves filled with leather-bound volumes and models of sailing ships, oak-panelled walls and porthole windows.

  The office was large enough to accommodate the several people within. Carter sat behind his desk flanked by two officers. Also in the room were Henry Alcott, Lamb, Smith and Brown, as well as another three stewards.

  Rowland paused at the threshold as they all turned towards him.

  Carter cleared his throat. “Mr. Sinclair, I presume. You’re early.”

  Rowland said nothing, his eyes on Alcott.

  “We have a situation, here, gentlemen,” Carter continued. “Mr. Alcott contends that you, Mr. Sinclair, and your companion, Mr. Watson Jones, are Communist operatives sent on board to either sabotage or seize my ship.”

  Rowland laughed. “Two unarmed men? I hardly think we’re likely to storm the bridge and take control, Captain Carter. As for sabotage… the notion is preposterous!”

  “Regardless, I do not take any threat to my ship or its passengers lightly.”

  “With the greatest respect, sir, perhaps then, you should have allowed Herr Kisch to be taken to a hospital.”

  Carter’s moustache bristled. “Mr. Alcott and his companions have volunteered to take you all into custody until we reach Sydney.”

  “For the sake of our fellow passengers,” Alcott said calmly. “And for your own safety, Mr. Sinclair.”

  Rowland took a step back but the door had been closed behind him. “Mr. Alcott has no authority to take anyone into custody.”

  Alcott spoke up. “My friends and I are members of a league of gentlemen loyal to king and country, sworn to defend the Commonwealth against
acts of Communist terror. We offer you our services with respect to the Communist agitator Kisch and his comrades.”

  “Mr. Alcott and his minions are Fascists!” Rowland said angrily. “Their intention is to execute Herr Kisch, myself and Mr. Watson Jones. Acceding to this request, Captain, will make you complicit in the murder of your own passengers!”

  “Will it indeed?” Carter said coldly. Alcott smiled.

  35

  AUSTRALIA’S WAY WITH UNDESIRABLES

  Gentlest Treatment in World

  Amidst the tangle of accusations levelled at the Federal Government for its allegedly harsh treatment of two recent arrivals who desired to enter this country after it had been made very clear to them that they were not wanted here, many people have been inclined to lose sight of the fact that not only does Australia possess the fairest immigration laws in the world but that she also administers them with a courtesy to those concerned which is unknown in any other country.

  …Australia’s Immigration laws rest basically upon the Immigration Restriction Act passed in 1901 and subsequently amended. This measure provides for the prohibition of the entry into the Commonwealth of persons who have failed to pass a dictation test in any prescribed language, who are likely to become public charges, are insane or suffering from infectious diseases, or have been convicted of an offence not of a political nature, and have not served the sentence passed upon them. The real barb of the Act lies in the first provision, for by means of the dictation test the authorities have power, theoretically at least, to exclude anybody whose presence in the Commonwealth is not desired.

  NO NATIONS NAMED

  Nowhere do the Immigration laws of Australia discriminate against or even mention any specific nationality as being barred from the country, and in this they exhibit a tactfulness and a diplomacy lacking, from the American laws, which say in unequivocal words that Japanese shall not come into the United States, a fact which has led to bitter and burning resentment in Japan, where there is no feeling at all against the Commonwealth’s machinery of exclusion. Actually Australia, which was the first country to adopt the dictation test, long ago succeeded by these means in solving a problem which has perplexed many foreign Governments at different times. There have been occasions in the Commonwealth’s history when the dictation test has enabled officials to get around obstacles which might have otherwise been insurmountable. One of them was nearly thirty years ago when a minor potentate from a Malayan State set out to visit Australia, this country’s Government having already been warned from London that he was likely to prove anything but an acceptable guest. In due course he arrived at Sydney, where it was tactfully explained to him that the law required everybody coming into Australia to pass a dictation test. A foolish law, of course, the officials explained, adding, with infinite diplomacy, that since he had spent some time at Oxford he would of course have no difficulty in passing it. Smilingly the potentate said that he was ready for the test and it was given to him—in modern Greek. He failed to pass and was informed by the officials that they were desolated with grief but could not land, the law being the law. In the following ten minutes the newcomer said some hard things about Australia and its laws, but when the steamer sailed the next day he was on board…