There was a moment’s hiatus then when time seemed to stand still, no sound, no movement, everybody waiting, tense and expectant. And the glimmer turned to sunlight, the mist burning away to reveal the high green interior of the island still wrapped in cloud, pinnacles of grey rock appearing and disappearing. Then Sapuru reappeared. A great a-ah of released tension went up from the crowd as the hostages came out behind him. They hurried to the safety of the jungle-green uniforms, and then the Buka insurgents were coming out of the building, some of them men I recognised, who had been part of the crew of the LCT coming across from Australia, all of them carrying their weapons and laying them down in front of the captain.
There had been no fight, no last-ditch stand. The insurrection was over, and the defeat of the insurgents had been achieved by bluff, by a show of strength. And something else, too — some inner power. He’s more than a politician, Perenna had said, and I could only guess at the secret trial of strength that had gone on between those two men. And now suddenly it was over, no bloodshed, not a single hostage harmed. By evening more troops had arrived, and the LCT was under charter to the PNG government to take the insurgents back to Buka, all except Daniel Sapuru and a dozen or so leaders of the Buka Trading Co-operative.
That night I lay between fresh-laundered sheets in a bed that was rock steady and did not move with the motion of the ship. I was tired, but I couldn’t sleep, thinking of Perenna just a few doors down the cement walkway of the motel where we had found accommodation, wondering what she would do now, whether she would accept Hans Holland’s advice or whether she would ignore it and try to run her brother’s life and the Holland Line, the two in harness. The torn pieces of that last letter of his were drifting soggily somewhere in the dark depths of the Pacific, and though it was that first line of his to which she had reacted so violently — My father and yours were brothers, each destroying what the other built — I could remember every line. It had gone on: Take my advice. Let the Holland Line founder. It has cost too many lives. Or else burn the stamps so that nobody else can ever know. And he had added, Goodbye, Perenna. I was cursed before ever I was born.
It was that last line, in conjunction with his opening — My father and yours were brothers — that my mind fastened on, and Perenna’s reaction, her statement that it had been blurted out by Tim. She had leapt to the instant conclusion that he was saying her grandfather, Colonel Lawrence Holland, had been her natural father. His own daughter-in-law … It’s unthinkable. But unthinkable or not, if it was Colonel Holland, then the only brother he had ever had was Carlos of the Holland Trader and the wooden masks and stamps. Carlos Holland! If it was Carlos Holland who was Hans’s father, then he must have survived the loss of the Holland Trader, must have known what had happened to it, and had then spent the last thirty years of his life masquerading as a distant cousin. It would explain Colonel Lawrence Holland’s reaction on finding that letter from Lewis in the safe at Madehas. No wonder he had been filled suddenly with such demoniac anger that fratricide became the only answer. A man who could leave his partner waterless … I was thinking of the Holland Trader then. Christ! Lewis, that letter, the stamps … The thought that had leapt into my mind was enough to bring curses upon any family.
There was a gentle tap on the door, and Perenna came in. ‘Roy.’ She was a dim shape in the darkness, feeling her way towards me. ‘I couldn’t sleep. I think I’m too tired to sleep. I keep thinking …’
‘About what?’
I pulled back the sheet, and she reached down to me. ‘About Hans — that letter chiefly and what happened to him.’ I could smell the warmth of her as our bodies met and I held her close. ‘Do you think he’s really dead?’ she breathed. ‘Or was the letter, the shot, the fire … was it all a stupid game?’
‘He’s dead,’ I said, but with more conviction than I felt. ‘He won’t trouble you again.’
‘No?’ She lay very still. ‘Then that’s the end of Carlos Holland. Hans was the last of his blood.’ She was trembling slightly as she said that. ‘Where’s Mac? Is he all right?’
‘He’s sober again, if that’s what you mean. He’s gone north with your brother.’
‘I’m glad. But I ought to have gone with them. As long as I’m with Mac … He’s getting old now.’
‘You think you can keep him off the drink?’
‘I could try. But not now.’ She pressed her body close against me.
‘What about the stamps?’ I asked. ‘Are you going to take Hans’s advice — burn them, forget all about the past and-’
‘No. I want to know the truth now. If I know the truth, then I can face it and that’s the end of the curse, isn’t it? If only Tim-’ She stopped there, burying her head in my shoulder. She stayed like that, very still for a moment; then she whispered, ‘But that’s for tomorrow. Let’s forget now.’
So we forgot, leaving the truth for the morrow.
Part Five
The next few days became increasingly difficult for us as the PNG government moved quickly to restore its grip on the island. Two airlifts of troops were followed by police reinforcements, and the Civil Administration was strengthened with the arrival of a senior government official and extra staff, together with a judge and two political officers to enquire into the cause of the insurrection. Screening of personnel began immediately, and all whites, other than mining company employees, had their passports confiscated. In our case, we not only became for the time being prisoners-at-large in Bougainville, but were subjected to endless questioning as a result of a statement made by Shelvankar.
It was from this statement, passages from which were read out at various times when I appeared before the Court of Enquiry, that I learned the full seriousness of Jona’s position. In no sense was he Hans’s partner; he had simply borrowed money from him. As managing director of the Holland Line, a private limited company of which he and Perenna were the sole shareholders, he was responsible for the fact that it had been operating so consistently at a loss over recent years that its sole asset, the LCT, had become totally committed as security for loans the company could not repay. As a result, he had been forced to agree to the cargoes Hans had arranged through Shelvankar, and in the case of the voyage from Sydney to Anewa and the lifting off the Queensland beach of the two truckloads of automatic weapons that had made the establishment of the Bougainville-Buka Republic possible, he had known very well that he was becoming involved in something highly illegal.
All this came out in the first two days of the Enquiry, so that on his return from transporting troops and police reinforcements to Buka, Jona was arrested, and the LCT impounded. Later he was released on his undertaking not to leave Bougainville. I thought at the time stronger action might have been taken against him if it had not been for his sister’s part in persuading the Chimbu workers to parade their strength and so save the lives of the hostages. Also, something quite unexpected occurred the day after his return. This was the death of Sapuru.
He wasn’t executed. Nobody had arranged his assassination. His body was quite unmarked. And I can vouch for that as I saw it in the hospital when I visited Perry, who had been roughly handled trying to escape back to Paguna. And it wasn’t a heart attack, or cancer, or any identifiable disease; it was sorcery. Witness after witness swore to the fact that he had just lain down and died. And the doctors found nothing wrong with any of the organs. Rumour had it that it was a case of pay-back, that Tagup was a great sorcerer and could call upon spirits more powerful than Sapuru’s island ancestors. Logic, on the other hand, suggested that it was probably a case of extreme dejection following the failure of his coup, a complete moral and physical disintegration resulting in total lack of the will to live.