Robbie Taggart

by Michael Phillips

  25

  Sea Pirates

  The night promised to be an ideal tropical evening. A full moon shimmered above the palms, whose great branches swayed gently in the light breeze overhead. The sands shone fluorescent, and waist-high breakers rolled lazily against the beach in never-ending succession. All the crew, save Torger and Lackey who were minding the ship, had come ashore. They were sitting around a huge fire on the beach roasting a wild boar Digger had shot that afternoon. It was the first fresh meat they had smelled in weeks, and the mere thought of what it would taste like put everyone in a festive mood. Even Pike passed around a cask of grog he had secreted aboard the ship. The night air filled with rowdy laughter, accompanied by the telling and retelling of everyone’s favorite seagoing adventures, most exaggerated beyond recognition from the original facts.

  Joining merrily in the revelry, Robbie was happy for an opportunity to blow off a little steam and release his mind from the troubles that had been plaguing him. Without the aid of Overlie’s harmonica, the singing was notably bad, worsened further by the effects of Pike’s alcohol. But the emotional good was still squeezed out of it, notwithstanding the Vicar’s derisive snorts whenever a love song was begun.

  This was the kind of place that made forgetting easy. It was clean, unaffected, pure. It was the kind of paradise more than a few sailors had jumped ship for. Though the lure was not quite that strong on Robbie, he could not keep out a few idyllic fantasies about staying here forever. Why not find himself a wife among the lovely brown-skinned women and make a life and future here? He could stroll every day upon the beach, plant rice and pick coconuts. Here his fantasies usually ended, however, because Robbie could not think of a more boring existence than sitting waiting for crops to grow. He was made for adventure, for new horizons!

  His laughter grew louder. One too many draws off the cask of grog aided him in the delusion that he was indeed having a fine time and that this was the essence of the adventuresome life of the fun-loving sailor.

  The party was suddenly and unceremoniously interrupted by a hard, high-pitched laugh.

  “Ah, ha! So here are our visitors from pretty English vessel!”

  Even in the shadows the speaker’s coarse, evil voice could readily be discerned, made all the more sinister by his heavy accent. As he walked slowly into the light of the fire, Robbie saw that despite the Chinese heritage of his large and burly frame, he was dressed in typical western seaman’s attire—blue canvas trousers, loose linen shirt. Strapped to his ample midriff was a thick black belt, from which hung an ornate blunderbuss pistol and a shiny steel cutlass. The handful of men at his back were similarly clad, although some were adorned with silk oriental shirts instead of the linen. All were heavily armed, though mostly with old-style weaponry.

  Immediately Robbie sobered. Traders occasionally carried weapons for protection, as had their own landing party the other day. But it was obvious these men were not traders, and Robbie instantly grew wary. Robbie held his peace however, waiting to see their intent.

  Pike pulled himself up with his crutch and leveled an uncompromising stare at the speaker.

  “We are that,” he said with cool defiance. “An’ just wot might ye be yerselves?”

  The question was unnecessary, for Robbie had reported his discovery of the Chinese junk lying at anchor on the other side of the island. But the verbal sparring might buy them a little time, and Pike did not ask it in a manner that required such a straight-forward answer.

  “Seamen. We be seamen—like yourselves. I am Chou Gung-wa, commander of Kiaochow,” replied the hefty man, trying to pass as an innocent Chinese sailor. “Our vessel damage in storm. We seek refuge. Like yourselves, eh?”

  “That’s our business.”

  “Ah, yes . . . of course.” Then Chou held out a porcelain flask. “We come sociable. See . . . bring gifts. Good drink. English sailors partial brandy, eh?”

  “Well, ye’re welcome to our camp,” acquiesced Pike begrudgingly, knowing there was nothing else he could do. “But I see no need for all that hardware.” He cocked his head toward the weapons.

  “One never knows what wild things one will meet on untamed islands,” said Chou.

  “But as you see, we are carrying none . . .”

  Chou barked an order in Chinese to his men, and immediately, though not without some grumbling, they dropped their swords and gun belts in the sand.

  “See,” said Chou, with a lopsided grin, “we men of peace!” But his cold, cruel eyes, hardly visible in the flickering firelight, told a different story.

  Robbie edged to the fringes of the group, found a piece of driftwood in the shadows, and sat down against it. Skeptically he observed the proceedings, especially the increasing rowdiness and drunkenness of the Tiger’s crew. Chou’s men were hardly the sociable type. Something did not ring true about this so-called peaceful visit.

  Robbie was as willing to make new friends as the next man. But he had sensed trouble from the moment he had spotted the junk from the mountain top. He had warned Pike, but the skipper had laughed it off.

  “Let the blag’ards come!” he had shouted. “If they mean trouble—then, by Jove, we’ll give it to them!”

  But it was a toothless boast, for there was no telling how many besides the present handful were on the Kiaochow, and the Tiger was down to fourteen besides the skipper. Of that, one was a child and two were old men. Even with their archaic weaponry, Robbie doubted the Tiger’s crew could put up much of a fight against the Orientals, even the few gathered around the fire.

  A casual observer, however, might have questioned Robbie’s misgivings in light of the apparent free flow of camaraderie between the two groups, though only two or three of Chou’s group could speak recognizable English. And the look on Johnnie’s face would not have indicated that a dangerous situation was brewing. It would have appeared merely that two crews of shipwrecked sailors were having a good time together.

  Gradually two voices rose above the rest. The boatswain had taken a noisy interest in an antique pistol belonging to one of the Chinese sailors. It was of a Persian make about 18th century, with a stock inlaid with bone, turquoise and brass. The butt was of pure ivory. No doubt booty from some overpowered ship, thought Robbie, though he prayed he was wrong.

  “Not a bad piece,” said Digger, sighting down its barrel.

  “Very good gun,” said the Oriental, nervously eyeing his gun in the hands of this white barbarian.

  “Well, it ain’t that good! Pretty, I’ll grant ye, but probably too old to be accurate.” Digger was drunk, and perhaps thought things had become a bit too congenial. A good fight, in his distorted inebriated mind, could only represent an improvement. “I bet ye couldn’t hit a coconut at ten feet in broad daylight with this pea shooter!”

  “Hit what aim at,” returned the Chinese, roughly reaching out and retrieving his gun, then leveling it dangerously at Digger himself.

  “Why you dirty—”

  But Digger did not bother to finish his verbal insult, and instead leaped at the sailor, a tiny man half his size.

  His adversary nimbly jumped to his feet and stepped aside, sending Digger sprawling into the sand. Jenkins and Johnnie tried to calm him, but, spitting and sputtering, he knocked them aside.

  “Lemme at him, the dirty Chi—”

  But Pike broke in. “Get out of here, Digger! Go cool your head in the sea! We don’t want trouble.”

  Digger fell back a step, muttering to himself, “Just one o’ those English rifles in the hold an’ I’d—”

  He never had the chance to finish his statement. Pike’s crutch shot up, landing a punishing blow to his jaw. Digger fell to the ground unconscious.

  “Fool!” breathed Pike, before turning again to the merrymakers. “We gots work to do tomorrow!” he shouted. “Time to break up this tea party!”

  But the damage had been done. And Pike knew it.

  26

  Attempted Negotiations

  Benjamin
Pike did not like traipsing through tropical forests at all, least of all in the dead of night. His fool leg kept sticking in the soft earth, and even with the moon, he could hardly see his way.

  But something had to be done, and quickly, if he intended to save his neck, and that of his crew. Not to mention his two shipments of highly profitable cargo.

  If Chou had mingled with the natives at all—and the possibility seemed undeniable that he had—then he must know that the Tiger had three days to make her repairs and clear out. That meant Chou would have to make his move sometime tomorrow, perhaps even this very night, in order to prevent the Tiger from making a fast getaway. For whatever he may have said, from the moment Pike laid eyes on the Chinaman, he knew he had robbery and pillage on his mind.

  The only way to deal with scoundrels like Chou was to beat them to the punch, seize the initiative, cut a bargain if you could, or better, intimidate them—that is, if you possessed anything that would put fear into them. The guns in the Tiger’s hold would no doubt have held off three crews the size of Chou’s. But that would have taken ammunition, and unfortunately that had not been part of the cargo. So Pike, the veteran negotiator, swindler, and sea-faring privateer, would have to try another tack. He hoped Chou would be dutifully impressed. At least enough to leave them alone.

  Pike well knew the strength of crew a junk like the Kiaochow was likely to possess, for Digger was not the only one guilty of a little ill-advised boasting that night. They outnumbered the Tiger’s men at least two to one, maybe more; if they had succeeded in buying off the natives, or cowing them into submission, the odds would be far worse.

  Pike had never been afraid of a fight. He had been in many in his time. But this would be nothing short of a massacre. He was already missing a leg, and he did not fancy losing his neck to boot! At the same time, he had no intention of losing his cargo either. Ten thousand pounds sterling worth of guns, not to mention half that in opium, or whatever the stuff was—he would not give up these riches without giving up his life in the process!

  The only way he could see to keep both was to confront Chou, and try to cut a deal with the pirate. He did not relish the idea of getting his throat slit. But he was not fool enough to walk into enemy territory without some insurance.

  The long trek through tangled underbrush with only one good leg was a grueling undertaking. He was lucky to find his way. And Pike was no longer a young man. When at last he reached the fringes of Chou’s camp, he stopped and leaned a few moments on his crutch, breathless. They were a confident lot, he thought. No sentry even posted. He walked on until he could see the glow of a smoldering fire.

  A sharp challenge suddenly rang through the night. It was in Chinese, but he knew the intent of the words.

  “I come to see Chou,” Pike replied. “You tell him I’m the captain of the Sea Tiger. And I too bring a gift.” He held up his last bottle of brandy—worth ten of the cheap rum Chou had passed off on them.

  A long pause followed, after which the lookout motioned him forward. From the look of the place, Chou and his men had been there for some time. If their story about weathering there during the storm for repairs was true, then this was not the first time they had been there. More likely, thought Pike, they used this place as a hideout after their raids. And it was indeed a fine setup—located in a clearing in the jungle, far enough from the beach to be obscure, but near enough to spot any visitors, however unlikely they might be on this treacherous eastern side of the island.

  The camp itself was large enough to accommodate fifty men comfortably. Two shacks had been erected at either end—of bamboo and sturdy lauan. If they had weathered that last typhoon, they would have to be considered permanent! Between, at scattered intervals, lay the individual bivouacs of the crew, and by the look of it, their boasts had not been hollow. A quick count revealed some twenty sleeping bodies, not counting the lookouts, the men still on the junk, and Chou.

  The guard led Pike to one of the shacks, obviously Chou’s quarters. After a sharp knock and several brief words, followed by an even sharper reply from inside, Pike was instructed to enter. He was met immediately with the heavy, sickening odor of opium mixed with rum.

  “You Englishmen have strange social custom,” said Chou dryly. “In China, we pay visits more seemly hours.”

  “There is a time for everything, as they say,” replied Pike as he settled himself on a low cushion opposite the Chinese leader. An opium receptacle stood between them, and Chou offered Pike a long, cylindrical pipe. “No, thanks,” said Pike. “I like to keep my head clear.”

  “Do not make mistake of underestimating clarity of honorable host’s head.”

  “Thank you for warning me. I wouldn’t think of it.”

  “So, have you come for business, as you English say, or pleasure?”

  Pike offered up his brandy. “Perhaps a little of both, I hope. No need for it to be otherwise.”

  Chou took the bottle, and while he poured each of them a serving in two fine porcelain cups, Pike took in his surroundings. Silk tapestries hung on the walls of the shack, all of ancient Chinese scenes—emperors and deities and pagodas. A bed at one end of the room was encased in mosquito netting and more silken tapestries, and the cushions on which Pike sat were of thick, rich velvet. Chou knows how to live well, if nothing else, thought Pike. He must do well in his business!

  Brandy in hand, Pike raised his for a toast. “May we find mutual interests and prosper in them.”

  They drained their cups and Chou refilled them.

  “I am intrigued, Captain Pike,” said Chou, with what might have been taken as a cunning grin.

  “You and I both know,” Pike said, following the train of thought his host had begun, “that a man . . . such as yourself, might—and who could blame him?—find a cargo such as the Sea Tiger’s very tempting.”

  “How should I know of your cargo?”

  “Come now, you heard the boastings of my foolish men as well as any. You do not need to be coy.”

  Chou laughed outright—a high-pitched sound that was hardly in keeping with his great, burly frame. This was the first time the fly had come right into the spider’s den to try to talk his way out of the inevitable. “So,” said the pirate after a moment, dabbing the corners of his eyes with a silk handkerchief, “you have come to beg mercy.”

  Now Pike returned the laugh, matching the pirate’s in harshness and cruelty. “I have come to warn you to tread lightly where the Sea Tiger is concerned.”

  “Warn me!” exploded Chou in a momentary rage. “Warn Chou!”

  He stopped, suddenly struck with the humor of what he had said.

  “Ha, ha, ha!” he laughed, his anger diverted for a moment. “You English dogs are so amusing!”

  Suddenly he whipped his cutlass from its scabbard and pressed its point against Pike’s chest. “What, tell me, would prevent your venerable host from taking whatever he pleases—including your groveling life? Ha, ha!”

  The suddenness of Chou’s intimidating threat took Pike by surprise. “I . . . I . . .” he tried to speak, but further words stuck in his dry throat.

  “Aha! So the English pig is not so confident at end of sword!” Chou gloated. “Warning, indeed!”

  Pike cleared his throat and attempted to regain his composure. “You would do well to take heed, pirate!” Pike spat out the word defiantly, though his voice still carried the hint of a tremble. “You would not dare cross the buyer of my goods.”

  “I do what I please!”

  “Have you no familiarity with the name Wang K’ung-wu?”

  The moment the name fell from Pike’s lips, the pressure of Chou’s cutlass immediately decreased. Slowly he dropped it from Pike’s chest.

  “So . . . you have heard of my client,” Pike went on in a steadier voice, regaining his confidence. “And you know he would not be happy to find his precious cargo tampered with, or lost upon the high seas.”

  “You English barbarians have saying—Dead men tell n
o tales!” Chou smiled at his own wit, but Pike was not through yet.

  “Wang knows the cargo, knows my schedule, it wouldn’t surprise me if he already has me being watched—somehow! The man is unscrupulous! Wang will know if anything happens, of that you can be certain!”

  Pike paused a moment, letting his words sink in. He knew Wang K’ung-wu’s reputation would do more than anything he might say. His was a name to shoot fear into even a pirate, however ruthless, throughout the whole Far East.

  “Have you ever seen Wang angry?” he went on. “Why, I have seen him cut off a man’s fingers for taking his drink, or gouge out a man’s eyes for looking upon his woman. How many men he has killed by his own hand, I wouldn’t even guess. Don’t think you will escape lightly for trying to rob him, my friend. Which is what he will take it to be if harm comes to me or my ship.”

  Chou leaned back and, weaving his fingers together, rested his hands against his large mid-section. “Yes, that may be so,” he said slowly, a self-satisfied grin spreading across his devilish face. “But it could well be that he honor man who bring him cargo—at no cost.” He threw his head back and roared in laughter. “He Chinese. He not trust likes of you, Pike. He pay you for guns, but still mistrust you. If I bring him guns . . . as gift—he happy!”

  Again he laughed uproariously.

  Pike swore silently to himself. He had never thought of such an angle. The pirate could indeed steal the guns, then ingratiate himself to Wang by turning them over free of charge. These idiot Orientals would be just fool enough to do such a thing! But he would not relent just yet.

  “Only a fool would harm a friend of Wang’s,” he said.

  “Friend! Bah! Wang have no friends!”

  “Before you are so hasty about it, you had better ask him about his old comrade Benjamin Pike.”

  Chou was thoughtful a moment, apparently weighing Pike’s words, eyeing him carefully while sheathing his cutlass. Still he wore his smug grin.