The Wake of the Lorelei Lee

by L. A. Meyer

  I am sure you are already in Australia, or at least close to it, and for that I am glad. It will afford some protection for you at least.

  Meanwhile, we look out for better weather.

  Hoping you have winds more fair . . .

  I am,

  Your most loving, devoted & etc.,

  Jaimy

  Chapter 59

  “What does Ju kau-jing yi mean?” I ask of Brother Arcangelo. We are out on deck, waiting to be called in to Cheng Shih’s presence. “She has taken to calling me that, is why I ask.”

  It is a beautiful day and I gaze up at the set of the huge sails. I have been here about a week, and I continue to marvel at the skill of these Chinese mariners. The ship’s name is Sheng Feng, which is Divine Wind, and she is fast, for all her size. I think the Lorelei Lee could take her in a race in a good stiff breeze, but it would be close.

  “It means ‘little round-eyed barbarian,’” replies the priest.

  “Barbarian?”

  He laughs. “To the Chinese we Europeans are all barbarians—they call us ‘hairy apes’—very clever apes, to be sure, but apes all the same. You must remember that their culture is a lot more ancient than ours.”

  “Umm . . . and what does Chi-chi’s name mean?” I see the chubby little eunuch hovering by Cheng Shih’s door, waiting for the summons.

  “It means, well . . .’Silly-silly’ is as close as I can translate it.”

  “Poor fellow, to have such a name . . . and to have had that awful thing done to him.”

  “You mean the castration? Let it not bother you, dear. It is done to them when they are very young—most don’t remember it being done. We have them in Italy, you know—the castrati, they are called. If a boy is found to have a fine voice, then snip! and his life is set for him. They are used for choruses and as soloists; they are singers with high, pure voices powered by massive grown-up lungs. I have heard them—they are quite impressive.”

  “I don’t like it. There’s plenty of good music around without doing that to little boys. It’s . . . it’s barbaric, is what it is,” I say, running my fingers through Ravi’s black locks. The boy stands by my side, attentive, as always, to what is going on. I have found, from the times he has sung along when I play my pennywhistle, that he has an excellent high soprano singing voice. But to preserve that voice in its present state by . . . No, I cannot even think of it.

  I look over to see that Cheng Pao, Shih’s husband, is standing on the quarterdeck, gazing down upon us, arms crossed on his chest. His eyes meet mine and then he turns and says something to the men there with him. All erupt into laughter.

  My ears burn a bit, like they always do when I know I’m being talked about.

  “Tell me, Brother, why does Cheng Pao not get angry over my enjoying his wife’s company and not him?”

  “He probably thinks it’s a harmless bit of sport. Believe me, if he thought otherwise, there would be great trouble.” Brother Arcangelo chuckles. “It could be that the poor man welcomes a bit of a rest from the side of his fierce bride. I am sure you have found her most . . . energetic?”

  I nod. She is that.

  Early on I played the big-eyed fearful little waif when alone with Cheng Shih—it seemed to please her to take pity on her winsome captive and treat me gently. For all her reputation as the most fearsome pirate that roams the China Sea, with me she is kind. I am reminded of Mam’selle Claudelle, sort of . . .

  I have learned many new Chinese words in my time with her—words for love . . . kiss . . . touch . . . soft . . . beloved . . . tender, words like that.

  She has bestowed on me many presents—silk dresses, slippers, fine pieces of carved jade, and even a sword and scabbard like hers, and some instruction in how to wield it. The hilt is wrapped in gold thread, and the blade is of the sharpest beaten and tempered steel. I am amazed.

  In return for this generosity, I do what I have always done when presents need to be given and I have the ways or means to procure them—I paint miniature portraits. There are plenty of watercolors, brushes, and fine paper aboard. Yes, they are a cultured people, and, as a matter of fact, Cheng Shih herself is quite good at painting. She has given me a fine painting of a fanciful fish that I shall treasure as long as I’m around to treasure things. I have done a portrait of Cheng Shih and she pronounced herself delighted with it and now demands one of me. There is a mirror in her cabin, and I am to start on it this very afternoon, after lunch.

  “Why do you think she enjoys me so, Brother?” I ask of my companion.

  He looks off, considering. “It seems that you do intrigue her, as your head is still on your neck. I think she finds you fascinating for being so very different from Chinese women. The way you carry yourself, the way you laugh and smile . . . and the very obvious fairness of your skin and hair.”

  He considers further. I reach up and put my arm through his and stand close to him. I have become quite fond of Brother Arcangelo Rossetti, as I have found him to be a good and kind man.

  “For another instance, you should know that Chinese women are very modest when it comes to exposing their bodies,” he continues. “From your diving performance on your first day here, you do not seem to share that modesty. I know you shocked Cheng Shih to her core.”

  “It seemed a wise thing to do at the time. I did have to prove myself.”

  “Perhaps. But anyway, you have only to look at Chinese art—very seldom will you see a nude female portrayed. Unlike us Italians. Have you ever been to the Vatican, child? No? Well, I can tell you the walls are virtually covered with nude bodies gamboling about . . . and that is a church, not a brothel, no matter what you heretics might say or think. Ah, here is Chi-chi. I believe we are being called.”

  Cheng Shih sits on an ornately decorated cushion, and I lie next to her with my head in her lap. We have already eaten of the rice, meat, and vegetables—all of it wondrous good—but she enjoys putting sweetmeats to my lips and giving me little sips of plum wine from her glass. I do not find it at all unpleasant—hey, I could be in a tub of boiling oil instead of lying here, dressed in fine silk, and being fed treats from the hand of a beautiful Chinese woman. Yes, my head could be resting on a chopping block instead of reclining here on her lap, jasmine perfume swirling all about us, and her fingers—her very knowing fingers—gently tracing the lines of my face. No . . . I ain’t complaining.

  Presently, Cheng Shih places a kiss on my smooth brow and murmurs something to Brother Arcangelo.

  “She says it is time for you to do the portrait of yourself. She wants to see how you go about it. Observe your technique, as it were,” he says, motioning for me to get up. I suppress a groan of pure laziness—yes, I quickly grow very used to luxury—and rise.

  The colors, brushes, and papers have been laid out on a small table in front of a mirror. There is a chair and I place my silk-covered bottom in it. I regard my image in the glass. Oh, Jaimy, if you could only see your girl now. Then I set to work.

  First I lay in the basic shape of my head with light pinkish-brown, and then put in the background colors—reds and yellows from the drapes hanging behind me. Then I put in some of the darker planes of my face, neck, and hair. The shadows in my eye sockets, alongside my nose, under my chin and lower lip. I think she is rather amazed at the speed with which I work—hey, spend a lot of time painting portraits of squirming children and you learn to be real fast.

  At length, I sit back and say, “It is now blocked in, but I must let it dry for a few moments before I put in the details, or else it will blur.”

  Brother Arcangelo translates and Cheng Shih takes her hand from my shoulder where it had been resting and pours another cup of that delicious plum wine and hands it to me. Too much of this and I ain’t gonna be paintin’ nothin’, I’m thinking.

  “Thank you, Beloved Shih,” I say as I take a very cautious sip. That is how I have been addressing her in Chinese. She beams. Her little European trifle is learning to speak a cultured language, imagi
ne that.

  As the painting dries, I cast my eyes about the room. There are various decorations—painted screens depicting great battles and lissome maids with fans and fancy hair, figurines, and a squat statue of a little fat man.

  “What is that?” I ask of Arcangelo.

  “Ah. That is a statue of the Buddha, the Great Teacher,” he answers. “One of the major figures in Oriental religion.”

  “He seems rather pleasant enough. Is that Cheng Shih’s religion?”

  “No, actually she is, like most Chinese, a Confucian. She keeps that there to remind her of a debt unpaid.”

  I lift my eyebrows, in question, and he turns and murmurs something to Cheng Shih, I guess keeping her informed of what we are talking about. Nobody likes to be left out of a conversation, and we certainly don’t want to get that one mad.

  “Bueno. Here is the story. Last year, we visited a town on the coast of Java. As their town was being sacked, Buddhist monks residing therein succeeded in making off with an enormous statue of great worth—the Golden Buddha. They got it on a ship and were bound away, their sacred idol safe, they thought. Alas, they were wrong, as they were soon overtaken by the Divine Wind. Seeing that their efforts were in vain, the would-be rescuers of the Buddha threw him overboard and, in true Buddist monk tradition, all the monks threw themselves in after it to perish. I think they were smart to do that, as Cheng Shih was furious and she would have had them all killed in horrible ways. Attempts were made to raise the Buddha but all proved fruitless. It was just too deep—at least thirty-five fathoms down. Several divers died trying to get down to the statue, and others refused to go. Cheng Shih eventually gave up on it, but did mark the spot with bearings and buoys, and then she sailed off, fuming. She is still angry now. After all, it’s a very valuable prize—solid gold and studded with jewels, and all that.”

  The painting is dry enough now to resume work. I pick up the thinnest of the brushes and begin tightening up the forms, firming up the overall structure and putting in the details. All the while I am thinking . . .

  There it is . . . a way to free myself, free Jaimy, and get my Lorelei back. Now, just how to present it to Cheng Shih . . .

  I blot the last strokes and hold the painting up to Cheng Shih. She clasps her hands in delight. To while away the afternoon, I take out my pennywhistle and begin on “The Sally Gardens,” to lend Cheng Shih some enjoyment and to calm my churning mind.

  In bed this night, with Cheng Shih lying beside me asleep, I think on my plan and go over it and over it in my head. Tomorrow, I will present it to her.

  Wish us luck, Jaimy . . .

  Chapter 60

  Hai!

  Her sword comes whipping out of its sheath and slashes down toward my head. I reach back with both hands and grasp the hilt of my own sword and barely get it out in time to parry her attack.

  We are on the main deck of the Divine Wind.

  She smiles and withdraws her blade, slowly circling around me, the tip of her sword describing small circles in the air. She looks for an opening, then . . .

  Hai!

  Leaping in the air, she strikes. I do not get my own sword around in time and she lays her blade against my neck.

  “Xian! Hao!”

  She laughs and returns her sword to the scabbard that is strapped to her back. I ruefully sheathe mine, too. In this particular discipline of Oriental sword fighting, the object is to draw your sword, strike, and then resheathe in one fluid motion as your opponent slumps to the ground in a pool of his own blood. It is very elegant to see, but very difficult to do.

  I bow low to her in defeat.

  “She has just complimented you on how well you are coming along,” says Brother Arcangelo.

  “Doh je, zhong ai de Shih,” I say, bowing low. Then I take a deep breath and say, “I have a request to make, Beloved Shih. Please. In your cabin.”

  The priest, looking a bit perplexed, passes it on. Cheng Shih looks at me, nods, and strides off. I do not think she is pleased. I follow her to the cabin.

  Once there, she sits on her cushion and signals to Chi-chi for a cup of wine. One cup of wine, not two.

  Uh-oh . . .

  I immediately fall to my knees and put my forehead to the floor at her feet and begin to speak.

  “Beloved One, I thank you for all the love you have shown me, an uninvited barbarian, since first I came here. I arrived, intending to do your ship harm, and yet you took me in and treated me with kindness . . .”

  Brother Arcangelo drones on behind me, translating my words.

  “. . . and now I want to ask of you a favor, one that is well within your power to grant. And if you grant me that favor, I will bring up your Golden Buddha for you.”

  That gets everybody’s attention, for sure.

  She reaches out her foot and puts her toe under my chin to lift my face. I take this to mean I can sit back on my haunches. I do it and continue.

  “You see, there are two British ships out on the China Sea, probably very near here . . .”

  Cheng Shih says something very tersely at this and Brother Arcangelo informs me, “Yes, she has scout ships out and she has heard of these.”

  “Good. You see, one of the ships, my Lorelei Lee, has a . . . device . . . on it that will allow me to go down to get the Golden Buddha.”

  There is sharp intake of female Chinese breath on this.

  “It is on the very ship you attacked on the day I came aboard the Divine Wind. You already know that vessel is very well armed—I know because I armed her—and if you were to attack straight on, there would be much bloodshed on both sides, and I have many dear friends on that boat as well as on this one. Plus, in a heated exchange, the ship might well go to the bottom and the device would be lost and you would never, ever, bring up the Golden Buddha.”

  “So how is it to be done, gaining this magic machine?” she asks, doubt plain in her voice. From her tone, I know what she says, even without Brother Arcangelo’s translation.

  I scooch over next to her, pressing my advantage.

  “There is another British ship out there, a convict ship, that carries no gunnery—it is the Cerberus and is but a simple convict ship bound for South Australia and is completely helpless.” I let that sink in and then continue. “However, the two are known to each other, and if you were to take the unarmed ship, the Cerberus, first, we could fill it with your men in disguise and come up next to the unsuspecting Lorelei Lee, in the guise of friendship, throw over the hooks, and take her, with little or no bloodshed.” I hope no bloodshed . . .

  Cheng Shih fixes me with a shrewd look and speaks.

  “She wishes to know what shall be your reward for this?” says Brother Arcangelo, looking like he’d like to know the answer, too.

  I put my forehead to the deck and and begin my plea.

  “Beloved Shih, there is a young man held captive on the Cerberus along with many of my friends. He and I were pledged to be married but cruel injustice pulled us apart, and I want him back so much, so very, very much . . .”

  Cheng Shih’s eyes narrow.

  “Yes. Go on,” murmurs Brother Arcangelo.

  My eyes are tearing up now, but I gulp and press on.

  “If I succeed in bringing up the Golden Buddha for you, will you give me back my ship and my young man and . . . let us go?”

  The tears are coming on strong now as I lift my face to hers.

  “Please, dear one. You have your ship . . . I just want mine. I love you, Beloved Shih, but . . . but . . . I want to be with my people . . . with my man, my friends, and with my ship. You have shown me that you have affection for my poor self. If you could grant this wish—”

  Cheng Shih gets to her feet and stares down at me. She spits a few clipped words to Brother Arcangelo, and then turns her back on me and stalks off toward her cabin. On the way, she calls out something to Cheng Pao, standing on the quarterdeck. He in turn bellows out an order and men fly up into the yards and the rudder is put over. We are cha
nging course.

  Brother Arcangelo gives me his hand and lifts me off my knees.

  “He is turning in the likely direction of those ships. He will send out scout ships. It will not be long till they find them,” he says. “Cheng Shih agrees to take those ships, and if you manage to bring up the Buddha with that wonderful device, she will free your lad”—here he pauses—“but she said nothing about letting you go.”

  Oh.

  I follow her and stand outside her door. I give a light tap, but I am not admitted. No, I am forced to stand there for at least an hour.

  Then the door suddenly flies open and Cheng Shih’s hand shoots out and grabs me by the wrist and yanks me in. Her face is stormy, and in her other hand she holds a thin, whippy switch.

  Uh-oh . . .

  She points to the deck and snarls, “Fu! Dai niu!”

  I drop to my knees before her. She puts her hand on my neck, forcing my upper body down, leaving my rump in the air.

  Target in position, she strikes . . .

  Yeeow!

  Once, twice, and yet again. I howl out in pain.

  “Please, Beloved Shih! Yeoow! Oh, God, it hurts! Please stop!”

  She stops all right, but not before she’s given me an even dozen and my shrieks are heard from one end of the Divine Wind to the other. The thin silk trousers provide my poor tail no protection at all.

  When it’s over and I lie bawling in a corner, she stands over me, wagging her finger and spewing out a long diatribe, detailing no doubt the shortcomings of my unworthy, ungrateful, unfaithful self.

  I lie there weeping for a good long time, but eventually Chi-chi brings in lunch and Cheng Shih relents and calls me again to her side, and it is she who gently applies a cool ointment to the red marks on my poor abused bum.