by L. A. Meyer
“I will go to him now.”
“Are you up to it, Sister? It’s only been two days.”
“I am up to it.” She even manages a smile. “Know this, Brit—they grow us up strong on the hard green turf of Ireland.”
She stands, steadies herself, and then walks to his side and sits on the edge of his pallet.
“Come now, Enoch,” she says, placing her hand on his shoulder. “You must regain your spirits, for the sake of us all. Here, a cold cloth for your brow . . . I see you have received a wound there, and I fear it was in defense of my poor self. Let me take off your blindfold such that—No, no, Enoch, you need not hide your eyes from me.”
It is late afternoon and I sit with Higgins, looking out through the starboard laundry window. We sleep down here now because I feel safer here. It is not very private, but we manage to work things out. We have taken a corner bunk and hung a drape over the front of it, and it serves for the marriage bed. Ravi, too, is here, at my feet. He witnessed all the happenings of the other day and is terrified of Ruger and does not like going topside, but he did, nonetheless, manage to creep out to retrieve my seabag from our old stateroom . . . and to coax Josephine down from the masthead. So we are a complete, if rather bizarre, family group.
“What do you think they will do to Ruger?” I ask, already knowing the answer. I hand Josephine a piece of ship’s biscuit and she takes it gently from my fingers. As she chews, I give the dome of her orange head a bit of a pet. She blinks her wise eyes and seems pleased with her lot.
Higgins sighs, and I know I will not like his answer.
“Probably not much,” he says. “He could claim it was an accident, that she was disobeying a direct order from the Captain of the ship. At the most, he will be charged with simple assault.”
“Simple assault? He murdered Mairead’s child!” I say, incredulous.
“As the law sees it, the baby has to be born before it becomes a person. Therefore, no person, no murder.”
“Fine law,” I say, seething. “Made up by men, no doubt.”
“Ummm,” says Higgins.
“So they’ll let that bastard go free, and hang me from the nearest tree for trying to skewer the son of a bitch.”
“Do not despair just yet, Miss. Others have tried to hang you before.”
“Hang Missy Memsahib?” cries Ravi, looking very alarmed. “Hang her dear body from tree? It cannot be. It—”
“On deck there!” comes the call from the lookout outside. “Sail! Big one! Two points abaft the port beam! Heading right for us!”
We all fly to the port window and gaze out.
Could it be Jaimy’s ship again? Hope surges . . .
Chapter 55
A ship on the horizon? Could it be Jaimy?
I leap for my glass, which dangles from the wall of our makeshift homestead, and rush to the port side window and put the glass to my eye. I see a massive sail that seems to be made up of many battens, looking for all the world like a woven rush doormat. I lower the glass and note that the First Mate is there, glass to his own eye.
“Mr. Seabrook! What is she?” I call.
“Lookout reports it is a strange craft, hull already up over the horizon. I suspect it is a Chinese junk. It looks like it has eight—no, ten—masts, so it’s got to be a big one.” He sounds worried.
“Surely it cannot harm us, Sir. The Lorelei Lee is armed!”
I know, for I armed her, and armed her well.
“Aye,” he says, folding his glass. “And so are they. And they carry up to a thousand heathens, every one of them carrying a broadsword . . . and they are coming on fast.”
A thousand? Good Lord!
Mr. Seabrook is soon joined by Mr. Gibson. “Get the Captain out here, Gibson,” he says, not bothering to hide the contempt in his voice. “We have the sea room. We shall try to run. Have the Bo’sun pass out cutlasses and muskets.” A man is sent to rouse Ruger from his den.
Damn! They’re gonna need more than that! They’ll need powder and shot and my Powder Monkeys and me as well, for who can aim the guns better than I?
“Mr. Seabrook! Mr. Gibson! I must come out for the sake of the ship! Will the truce hold? Will you defend me?”
They know exactly what I mean by that, as Ruger has just emerged from his lair, disheveled and looking about, confused. Befuddled or not, he does wear his sword and pistols.
Seabrook touches the butt of the pistol at his belt. “Yes, we will defend you,” he answers.
“Come, girls, to me!” I shout to my Powder Monkeys. “Let’s go! Mick! Keefe! Follow me!”
We remove the wedges, throw open the latches, and burst out onto the deck.
“Monkeys! Powder to all the guns! Molly, to the stern gun! Quick! Ann, to starboard! Maggie, port guns!”
Mairead! Damn! You shouldn’t be here! Not yet!
But she is, and she goes down to the powder magazine like all the rest and comes up bearing the bags and the shot.
“What’s going on?” Ruger mumbles. “Why are the whores out?” He casts a bleary but wary eye, no doubt remembering our last encounter when I did my best to kill him.
“Chinese junk, Sir. A big one. Probably a pirate. And we need the girls to carry powder. He should be in range of the after gun very soon,” announces Seabrook, nodding to me.
I need no further encouragement.
“Mick! Keefe! To me!” I cry, tearing down into the Captain’s cabin. “Free up the gun!” I shove Ruger aside on my way.
The lads do it, throwing over tables and chairs to expose the gleaming brass of my nine-pound Long Tom lurking beneath. It’s still got the name painted by Davy Jones on the butt end, Kiss My Royal Ass. They haul it back on its carriage and open the gun port. Maggie brings up the powder bag and we ram it in, followed by the wad and the nine-pound cannonball. The gun should have been left loaded, but plainly it wasn’t. Stupid Ruger . . . I pierce the bag and set the matchlock in the touchhole. The gun is ready to fire.
I peer out over the gun at our pursuers.
Good Lord, there must be at least a thousand of them, in the rigging or leaning over the rail of the thing, waving gleaming swords and howling for our blood.
“Put her amidships and crank her up three notches, lads!”
They do it. I know the junk is still out of range, but maybe this’ll scare ’em off. I pull the lanyard.
Crrrack!
The gun bucks back and I look out over the smoking barrel.
Hmm . . . The shot is a good hundred yards short. It does not scare them off.
“Keefe!” I shout. “Crank her up as high as she will go! Reload!”
The gun is made ready and we fire again.
Crracckk!
It is no good. The shot again falls way short, but still . . . the junk slows its progress toward us.
I wonder why . . .
I do not wonder long. There is a flare from the junk and a rocket goes skyward, trailing sparks.
“Reload, lads!” I shout, and run back out on deck.
We watch the rocket rise, then we hold our breath as it falls, twenty yards to port. Immediately thereafter, two more rockets are launched.
So. That is the way of it. They will stay out of the range of our cannons and continue to rain rockets upon us until such time that they score some hits and then we will be lost.
“Man the hoses,” orders Mr. Seabrook. “If one of those rockets sets our sails afire, we are done.” Heads nod and orders are given and the hoses are pumped up and ready.
Which is good, for the next rocket lands square on the fantail and sets up a fierce flame.
“Damn!” says Mr. Gibson. “It’s phosphorus! It’ll eat right through the deck. Douse it! Now!”
It is done, but we all know that the Chinese have many more rockets.
“If we turn to port and give them a broadside . . .” ventures Mr. Gibson.
“No,” says Mr. Seabrook. “If we do that, they will still be out of range and then we will have l
ost headway, so they will swarm all over us. Look at them! The heathen devils!”
The junk is close enough for us to see the Chinese swordsmen crowding their rail. We can hear them screaming, as well.
Ruger, for his part, stands weaving on the quarterdeck, sword in hand, shouting his defiance to the enemy. While the other officers stand calm, ready to accept whatever Fate has in store for them, he does not.
“Away, you heathen devils! Monsters!” he roars. “Spawn of Satan, away! Back to your hellholes. Back, I say!”
Fat lot of good that will do, you sorry excuse for a man!
The junk stays just out of range and continues to pepper us with those soaring missiles.
Oh, Lord, this cannot end well, I know, and to have come all this way to end up either burned alive or to be enslaved by some Chinese pirate, my inner coward wails.
No, this calls for desperate action . . . from me.
I have a plan and I resolve to carry it out, shoving my sniveling cowardly self back down. No, you idiot, she wails. Are you out of your mind? Run and hide! Run!
Run where, self? I ask.
She whimpers but does not reply, so I turn to the First Mate . . .
“Put in the small boat,” I say. “Attach a long thin line to it—at least fifty yards long, with more standing by.”
Seabrook cocks an eye at me.
“The Chinaman is trying to burn our sails,” I answer, trying to keep the coward’s quaver out of my voice. “Fine. We will burn his first. Ravi, my bow, my arrows, and the bucket of pitch. Have Cookie light it off. Now!”
He scurries off while the little rowboat used for painting the ship’s side is put in the water, with a rope ladder leading down into it. Ravi returns with my gear and I order him into the boat—he is light in weight, and I need him. He doesn’t look happy, but he does it. Then I follow him down.
Ruger looks confused and not at all happy to see me with bow and arrow in hand, but the other officers know my intent.
“All right,” I say, when I’m settled on the middle seat. “Let out the slack. Keep doing it till you see me hit their mainsail.” The line tied to the bow of the boat is loosened and my fireboat begins to drift back in the wake of the Lorelei Lee.
Ravi sits in the stern, scared but ready to prepare the arrows when I call for them. I keep the bow hidden down under the gunwales so the enemy will not see what I plan.
We draw closer, and I know we are spotted, as I can see the reflections of lenses pointed at us. Perhaps they will think me an emissary sent to parley . . . or perhaps sent to offer a surrender to their tender mercies, for which pirates are not well known.
Think again, Chinaman. We are close enough now . . .
“Ravi. Give me one.”
The boy dips the cloth-tipped end of the arrow into the burning pitch and hands it to me. I grab it by its shaft, nock it, pull back, and let it fly. It arcs up and . . . misses the sail. It falls onto the deck of the junk and I cannot see what damage it inflicts. Prolly not much.
Damn!
“Ravi! Another!”
He dips and hands me the flaming arrow. I nock and fire . . .
Hooray!
This one hits dead center on their mainsail. That gets their goddamned heathen attention. Immediately there are men in the rigging, with some jabbering away as others carry buckets of water.
No hoses, you devils? Well, too goddamn bad . . .
It does seem that their sails are made out of woven mats of some sort—reeds or grasses or something. Whatever they are made of, my airborne torches fire them up quite nicely.
“Another, Ravi!” I crow out, triumphant.
“Good shootings, Missy,” he says, handing me another arrow with a flaming end. I take it and let it fly . . . and fly it does . . .
Another hit! Katy Deere, you should see your Sister now!
We are a mere fifty feet from the huge junk now. I fire away at will and soon I’ve got their mid sail in flames and then the after sail, as well.
Ha! The Lorelei Lee is saved!
But, as happened many times in the past, my triumph is short-lived. While I have one arrow left, I suddenly find that they have many, many more arrows, as I see a flock of them come winging our way.
I hold my breath and . . .
. . . most miss, but one arrow does thud into the seat next to me. Ravi trembles, his black eyes wide with fear and looking to the heavens. He whispers, “Happy puppy, happy puppy,” over and over. His back is to the junk, so he cannot see the arrows coming toward us, and perhaps that is best for the little fellow. Happy puppy, happy puppy . . . Other arrows fall close, but I am a small target and the junk is large.
I loose my remaining arrow, setting their topsail aflame.
We have done our job. More arrows fly at us and do us no harm, but I know they will soon get lucky. I lift my arm and signal to the Lorelei Lee to pull us back.
But she does not pull us back. No, the rope goes slack and the Lorelei Lee gets smaller and smaller on the horizon, while the Chinese junk looms ever and ever bigger.
Ruger has cut our line! He’s running! We have saved the ship, but we ourselves are doomed! The cowardly bastard!
My heart sinks. We are undone.
The arrows from the junk stop coming at us—they know we are adrift and helpless now. I put down my bow and wait for capture and certain death. I wrap my arms around Ravi and he continues to murmur his mantra . . .
I add mine . . . Lord, as I am coming to you, please make this hapless girl welcome. I promise to be good . . . and yes, happy puppy is good enough for me, too . . .
Chapter 56
A hook is put down into our little rowboat and we are hauled alongside the massive junk. I had not realized the sheer size of the thing before, but I do now. Not that it matters, as I will certainly be dead soon. I know that for sure because all I see about me are furious faces—Chinese faces, with shaved heads and pigtails, looking like demons, all waving curved swords and screaming at me. Can’t say as I blame ’em, for I had set their ship on fire. I’d be rather mad, too.
I know I’m going to die, and I only hope it will be quick. I’m so sorry, Ravi, for getting you into this . . . I hope it will be quick for you, too.
There is a ladderlike thing that is attached to the side of the ship, and men clamber down it and rough hands reach for us and we are dragged onboard. I cannot see what happens to Ravi, but I am put on my knees before . . . what . . . ?
That matters to me less than the fact that someone grabs me by the hair and stretches out my neck and I feel the cool steel of a blade laid upon it. I shiver at the touch.
This is it. Yes, Lord, I am ready. Goodbye, Jaimy . . . I hope . . .
The blade is taken from my neck and I know it is being raised high above my head.
. . . I hope you have a lovely life, Jaimy . . .
“Cheng Pao! Ting! Zhi!” shouts a woman’s voice.
I sure as hell hope that means “Stop!”
Apparently it does, as my hair is released and I can lift my still-attached head to gaze stupidly upon the one who gave that order.
It is a small, very young woman. She is dressed in loose yellow and green pantaloons, shirt, and vest. On her feet, which are very close to my nose, are elegantly brocaded slippers. All of her clothing fairly shimmers with richness, which pales beside her own personal beauty—her rather exotic beauty. Above her dark, almond-shaped eyes, she is half bald, her forehead shaved, leaving her long black hair at the back of her head to be plaited into a long pigtail. The only thing out of place in the little-china-doll image is the hilt of the two-handed broadsword that sticks up over her right shoulder. That and the rather stern look she fixes on my poor quivering self. Can’t blame her for that, for I did a lot of damage here. The fires are mainly out, but the smoke still drifts all around us.
Next to her stands a very large Chinese man in the process of re-sheathing his sword, probably the man who was about to take my head. Men come up to jabber reports t
o the large man, but from the deference shown to the girl, she is the one most definitely in charge.
In one fluid motion, she reaches back, grabs the hilt of her sword, whips it out of the sheath strapped to her back, and brings the blade around in a wide arc to rest against the side of my neck.
I gasp with the sudden swiftness of it all. My poor neck feels very tender and bare next to the steel. Though the touch is light, I can feel that the blade is razor sharp.
She stares at me down the gleaming shaft of her sword.
“Suk naai!” she snarls.
What does she want? How do I handle this? Is it—
“Cheng Shih wishes to know who you are.”
What? English words? Here?
It is then that I notice a man standing slightly behind the female creature. He is plainly European and is dressed in the habit of a monk—black cassock with hood laid back from his head, a large golden cross dangling from his neck, and a hempen cord about his waist.
A Catholic monk on a Chinese junk? What? Is he here to give me last rites? Is that it? My mind, what’s left of it, reels . . . I grow more and more confused.
“Cheng what? Who . . . ?”
“Cheng Shih is the commander of this ship . . . and her entire fleet as well,” says this monk. “It would be best if you answer her question.”
“My . . . my name is Jacky Faber and in England I was born. I am a convict heading for New South Wales. My ship has many such convicts, and we only ask to be left in peace. Where . . . where is my little boy?”
Oh, there you are, Ravi. Newly released by his own captor, Ravi grabs the opportunity to wrap himself around my waist.
The monk turns to the woman and rattles off a few sentences, which I assume to be Chinese. She grunts and looks me over, touseled head to bare foot. Then she steps back, and with the same fluid motion she had used to draw her sword, she whips it back into her sheath and turns around. Embroidered on the back of her emerald green garment is a large golden dragon, its mouth open and spitting bright red fire. The Lady of the Dragon issues an order, my arm is taken, and I am dragged off toward a hatch. My fear, which had left me for a moment, comes flooding back.
