The Improbable Journeys of Billy Battles

Chapter 14

Chapter 14“It is time for me to deal with my German problem,”

Katharina said as the three of us settled in for dinner at an

outdoor restaurant along the Saigon River. “I want to get all of

this behind me… I am tired of living like a fugitive.”

“So what do you plan to do?”

“From here, we are going on to Germany,”

Manfred said. “In two weeks, we are taking a freighter down to

Singapore and then boarding a ship to Bremerhaven.”

The news hit me like a mallet.

“Isn’t that dangerous? I mean the German

authorities, in one form or another, have been coming after you for

a long time. It seems kind of foolish to walk right into the lion’s

den.”

Manfred explained that he had hired two

excellent German lawyers and had been in touch with the American

Embassy in Berlin.

“There is a plan in place to get this whole

thing quashed once and for all,” he said. “After all, the German

authorities have no evidence of any unlawful activity, let alone

murder. What happened was neither my nor Katharina’s fault. The

baron brought it on himself. In any case, we are not going to get

into that. The original story of a street robbery by Chicago thugs

is the one we are sticking with.”

I didn’t say anything. Instead, I looked at

the glass of ruby Bordeaux wine I was drinking.

“You don’t think it is a good idea, do you?”

Katharina said.

“I just think it is a risky thing to do…

After all, you are safe in the Philippines, and you have a

first-rate life there.”

“Yes, but we both feel like hunted

criminals, and I just can’t live my life that way.”

“I guess so…” I was feeling a bit selfish.

When would I see Katharina again? What if she were incarcerated in

Germany? I suddenly felt a deep sense of loss, the likes of which I

hadn’t felt since my Mallie died. I also began to question what I

was doing here in Saigon. After all, we were already deep into

1895; and even though I had reconnected with Signore Difranco, I

didn’t feel as though I was accomplishing anything with my life. My

money was still holding out, but I was not gainfully employed, and

I had no prospects.

True, I had my retainer salary with the

Denver Sun that was being deposited into a Denver bank for

use by my mother and Anna Marie. And I was writing periodic

dispatches that were being carried back to the United States by

ship. One day, I received a package of five newspapers that had my

stories on the front page attributed to “William R. Battles, our

Correspondent in the Far East.” I wondered if my mother and the

McNabs had seen my work and if they did, if they approved.

For the next ten days, I showed Katharina

and Manfred around Saigon and environs. We took day trips to

assorted villages, visited Cholon and the Chinese market, sampled

food at different street restaurants, and generally behaved like

tourists. Katharina and I had little time alone, which was probably

just as well. Had we moved our relationship into a more intimate

stage, things would have been more difficult for us both. After

all, she would be thousands of miles away in Germany, and I would

be in Saigon.

About a week into their visit, Signore

Difranco and I took them to one of his black pepper plantations.

That proved to be a mistake.

I had never been to this particular

plantation, and I will never forget it. It was high on a plateau

where the earth was red and the heat intense. The first thing we

noticed when we arrived was how awful the workers looked. They were

in terrible shape, with gaunt, bony faces, hollow eyes underlined

by dark circles, and clothes that hung from protruding

collarbones.

As they worked among the pepper plants, the

men, women, and some of the older children had to contend with

battalions of vicious army ants, swarms of bright orange

mosquitoes, and reddish-blue ox-flies the size of poisonous caster

beans. As a result, many workers had ugly open sores on their arms,

hands, necks, and faces. A few workers we learned were bed-ridden

because of the bites of these insects.

Katharina looked at her brother and then at

me. Then she half whispered, “Das ist absolut schrecklich…

grauenhaft… inakzeptable.”

She was right. It was terrible, horrible,

and unacceptable.

Then she looked at Difranco. “Do you condone

these conditions… this kind of treatment?”

Difranco was obviously as upset as we were.

“Absolutely not.” Then he stormed away in search of the

plantation’s French foreman. He found him a short distance from us,

and we could hear the conversation. It was in French, but I could

tell from the tone that Difranco was not happy.

“Henri, ce qui se passe… pourquoi ces

travailleurs dans un tel état?” he demanded.

Katharina, who spoke French, said he was

demanding to know why the workers were in such a state.

The two then moved further away from us, and

we couldn’t hear the heated conversation. Finally, Difranco

returned, called an elderly native man over, and said something to

him in his language. The old man then waved his hands at the

workers and yelled in the native language, “Ngừng làm việc. Chúng

tôi đang dừng hoạt động.”

Difranco said it was an order to stop

working and that the plantation was shutting down. Operations would

be suspended until the workers who needed it could get medical

treatment and the farm made safer from insects.

“I have never seen anything like this,”

Difranco said.

Katharina was not convinced. “Nor have I,

but I must say, Monsieur Difranco, I am not at all surprised. This

kind of exploitation is occurring everywhere in Asia these

days.”

“My dear Baroness, I can assure you this has

never happened at one of my pepper plantations, and it will never

happen again. I do not exploit my workers. It is imprudent business

practice to let workers fall into such a state.”

I felt embarrassed for Difranco and hoped

that Katharina would remain silent. Perhaps seeing my

embarrassment, Manfred took Katharina by the arm and shook his head

before she could say anything else.

“What will you do about this situation?”

Manfred asked. “Is there a hospital?”

Difranco nodded. “Each plantation has a

small infirmary. We will treat the workers there, and if I have to,

I will shut this plantation down for good if we cannot find a

remedy for the ants and mosquitoes.”

The remedies in those days were petroleum or

mineral oils that primarily caused the death of insects such as

ants and mosquitoes by asphyxiation or by triggering the insects to

attack one another.

“We will put down oleic acid against the

ants and lemongrass oil against the mosquitoes along with pyrethrum

and derris,” Difranco said. “These have proven quite useful.”

It was not a good outing for any of us, and

it created a distinct schism between Difranco and Katharina. The

journey back to Saigon was awkward, and my attempts to move the

conversation to a more amenable topic fell flat.

A week later, I saw Katharina and Manfred

off at the Messageries Maritimes quay. The ship was a small vessel

of about 1,500 tons and would make the 750-mile journey from Saigon

to Singapore in about two days. Even after changing to a much

larger and faster passenger liner in Singapore, the trip to

Bremerhaven, Germany, would be considerably longer—some twenty-five

days even using the Suez Canal.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with

us?” Katharina asked, squeezing my hand as we stood on the deck of

the Blue Lily, a single stack red and black vessel belonging to a

British freight line.

“I don’t think I could survive twenty-five

days at sea… I think I would rather walk to Germany.”

Moments later, the ship’s whistle sounded

the signal for visitors to leave the vessel. Manfred grabbed my

hand and shook it.

“Thanks again for taking care of my sister…

I know she is a handful.”

I nodded, and as I did, Katharina put her

arms around me and held me tight.

“I will miss you, William, but I am sure we

will meet again,” she said. “You just need to take care of

yourself, and don’t do anything stupid like running off to find

this Ba person.” With that, she pressed her lips to mine and then

stepped back and turned away with a trembling chin and damp eyes.

She dabbed at her eyes with a small lace hanky and turned back to

face me with a faint-hearted smile.

“I think it is you who needs to be careful,”

I said, an ache forming in my chest. “I hope this journey to

Germany isn’t a mistake.”

The ship’s whistle blasted again. “You

better get off, or you will be going with us,” Katharina said. As I

turned to leave, she grabbed my shoulder and embraced me once

again.

“Thank you, William, thank you so much for

being such a supportive friend,” she said, her lips at my ear. She

paused a moment and then whispered, “I believe you and I are

destined for a special liaison. Keep that in mind whenever you are

tempted to go scampering off into the jungle.”

She stepped back next to Manfred, and I made

my way down the gangway. Once on the quay, I looked up at them both

and waved. They waved back, and then Katharina dabbed at her eyes,

turned away, and hastily disappeared through a bulkhead hatch.

As I watched the Blue Lilly move away from

the dock and head slowly down the Saigon River toward Cap Saint

Jacques, the heaviness and tightness in my chest grew stronger. I

wondered if I would ever see Katharina again. I decided to walk the

two miles or so to Signore Difranco’s house. I needed to clear my

head and walk off the despondency that enveloped me.

Five months went by. We were in the new year

of 1896, when I finally got a letter from Katharina. I no longer

have that letter, but I will never forget its opening line:

“Dearest William, I have weathered the

storm. I am not a criminal, and my life is mine once again. And I

desperately want you in it.”

The letter went on to explain that her

German attorneys in concert with the American Embassy had received

an official exoneration for her concerning her husband’s death from

the German authorities in Mecklenburg-Schwerin.

However, there was a quid pro quo. She had

to sign a document relinquishing all rights and claims to the

baron’s estate. She did so gladly much to the delight of the

baron’s family. They had worked unsuccessfully to unblock the

slothful wheels of German inheritance and tax laws that were made

even slower because of Katharina’s exodus from Germany and the

United States.

Apparently, the German authorities and her

former in-laws were less interested in Katharina and the cause of

the baron’s demise than they were in unlocking the legal padlocks

that impeded the baron’s vast financial holdings, castles, and

other assets from being dispersed.

The letter ended by saying she was staying

in Germany for a few more months and then returning to Chicago to

visit her parents. Manfred, meanwhile, was returning to the

Philippines from Germany. She asked how long I planned to stay in

the Far East and if I might consider coming to Chicago.

The question made me think about what I was

doing in Saigon. Difranco had put me on the payroll of his company

with the manufactured title of Chef de la sécurité, but he and I

both knew it was a flimsy effort to legitimize my presence in

Saigon. Even though it gave me some standing in the colonial

community, I was beginning to feel it was time to move on. The

question was to where. Were I to return to the United States, it

would be to Denver and the family I had left behind, not to Chicago

with the objective of creating a new family with Katharina. I felt

both confusion and guilt: confusion because of my growing fondness

for Katharina and guilt because I left those I loved behind in

Denver.

I was still chewing over those emotions when

Dr. Son came to Difranco’s house one evening with some news. After

all of these months, he had actually managed to get a message to

Ba, and Ba had responded with a letter of his own.

“He will be in Bình Dương province in a week

or so,” Dr. Son said. “He says he would be happy to see you

there.”

I was not prepared for that news. In fact, I

had given up the idea of ever seeing Ba again.

“Where in Bình Dương province?” I asked.

“He did not say where exactly, but he said

he will send a message about that. You know, of course, that it is

very dangerous for Ba in this part of the country. If the

authorities catch him, they will probably execute him.” Dr. Son

looked at Linh Thi and Difranco, both of whom had joined us in the

living room.

“You can meet at my plantation up there,”

Difranco said. “It is secluded, and there are no military or police

around.”

“I will let Ba know… his messenger is to

contact me again tomorrow.”

Difranco gave Dr. Son the details of the

plantation’s location.

“Did he say why he is coming so near to

Saigon?” I asked. “Is he visiting his family? I don’t imagine he

came all this way to see me.”

Dr. Son folded the paper Difranco had given

him and put it into his jacket pocket. “I suspect it is a secret

trip on some kind of insurgent business. He didn’t provide any

reason.”

I wondered aloud if Ba would feel safe

meeting me at a colonial plantation.

“I will go with you,” Difranco said. “People

in the province are used to seeing me coming and going on estate

business. And you are my chief of security, after all. There will

be nothing suspicious about it.”

Three weeks later, Dr. Son arrived at

Difranco’s house with more detailed instructions. Ba agreed to meet

me in three days at the pepper plantation in Bình Dương province.

He would meet only with me, no one else. After we had arrived, we

were to remain in the main house of the plantation until Ba sent a

messenger for me.

“I guess I can understand his caution, but

he has nothing to fear from me,” Difranco said.

“Perhaps not, but you can imagine that there

are not many Frenchmen Ba trusts given his past history with the

authorities,” Dr. Son said.

Difranco and I left around six the next

morning. Linh Thi was not happy.

“I wish you wouldn’t go, Antonio,” she said,

handing him a wicker basket of food for our trip. “It is dangerous

to meet with those people.”

“I can’t let William here go up there alone.

Why, he may get lost and never find his way back,” Difranco said,

nudging me in the ribs. “This is no place for a jayhawker.”

We settled into the back of Difranco’s

Victoria carriage. Two men sat on the raised driver’s seat in front

of us. One carried a rifle. I brought my Colt along, just in

case.

“Do you think that is necessary?” Difranco

asked as we pulled away from his house.

“You never know… I just feel better having

it along.”

We arrived at the plantation around three

o’clock in the afternoon. It was a long, jarring, grimy trip over

rutted roads; and when we arrived, we were covered in red dust. The

main house, as it was called, was a small two-story white stucco

structure where the French overseer lived. It had an office,

kitchen, dining room, and a small living room downstairs and three

bedrooms upstairs. A covered second-floor veranda enveloped the

house on three sides. Nearby were several small huts where some of

the plantation’s native foremen were housed.

The overseer, a short burly man named

Claude, greeted us in French as our carriage pulled into the main

yard. After we had climbed out of the carriage, he and Difranco

engaged in conversation. Because the harvest had already taken

place and there was only minimal work to be done on the plantation,

Difranco told Claude he should take a few days off and visit the

nearby village where he had a girlfriend.

“Merci, Monsieur Difranco, je vais le

faire,” Claude said. Less than a half hour later, he had saddled a

horse and was on his way.

“I feel better with Claude out of the

picture,” Difranco said.

That evening, as dusk descended, the two of

us sat on the veranda sipping cognac and looking out at the rows of

recently harvested pepper plants that coiled over dark undulating

hills. The black sky seemed near enough to touch. Millions of

brilliant stars shone brighter than I had ever seen them. There

were no city lights to reduce their luminescence, and the only

sounds we heard were of cicadas, the occasional “ki-wao” sound of

green peafowls, and the sporadic lowing of water buffalo.

A cool night breeze blew through the coconut

palm trees that surrounded the house, and we could smell our dinner

being cooked in the kitchen below.

“Mrs. Kim Cuc does the cooking here,”

Difranco said. “Wait til you taste her pho ga (chicken noodle

soup). She also makes Thịt bò xào

với (sauteed beef with lemongrass), Ca Bong Lau Nuong voi Mo

Hanh (roasted catfish with scallion oil), Rau Muong Xao (stir-fried

water spinach), and Chuoi Chien (Fried Bananas). She makes this

meal for me every time I visit. You are in for a treat.”

He was right. It was a feast featuring

flavors and textures of food I had no idea existed. I went to bed

that night stuffed to the gills. The next morning, Difranco took me

on a walking tour of the plantation. Unlike the one we had visited

with Katharina and Manfred, this one was well run with

healthy-looking workers and children. They seemed to genuinely like

Difranco and joked with him as we walked through the area where the

workers lived.

“I know some people see this as

exploitation,” Difranco said as we walked. “And I will admit there

is a lot of that going on. But if you ask these people working

here, they will tell you they are happy to have work. In most

cases, the work they do here is in addition to their own small

farms where they grow rice, vegetables, and other crops.”

“You aren’t still thinking about what

Katharina said, are you?” I asked as we stood before the main

house.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. It bothered

me that she thought I would exploit my workers and allow them to be

in such a weak state of health.”

“You and I understand that, but I think the

general opinion in America is that no country should dominate or

colonize another.”