The Mark of the Golden Dragon

by Louis A. Meyer

  Captain Liam Delaney, well-armed and resolute, is left to guard the ship and her cargo, and I know the Nancy B. is in good hands. I believe he is rather glad to be left out of what is going to happen tonight, as it is sure to be beneath his dignity. He is right on that, I'll own.

  "Then, let's go. Davy and Tink, follow Joannie. She knows where to go and how to get there. Ravi, you're with me. John Thomas, McGee, you know what to do. Everyone, be careful."

  And with that, we are out into the night. Davy and Tink lope off down the street, Thomas and McGee disappear down Fore Street, and Ravi and I climb into a cab.

  When we are settled and on our way, Ravi says, "Missy Memsahib going to do some more naughtiness."

  He does not even put it as a question.

  "It might look like it, Ravi, dear," I say, giving his hand a reassuring pat. "But if everyone does their part, yours included, everything should go all right."

  "We go now to the place of many ladies?" he asks, plainly not quite convinced as to the "all-rightness" of this expedition. He is quite nicely turned out in his snowy white turban and pantaloons.

  "Yes, Ravi," I answer. "And here we are." I hand him the train of my dress as we alight from the carriage, then enter Mrs. Featherstone's Fine Emporium.

  The door to that illustrious establishment is opened for us and we enter to find Mr. Benjamin Crespo waiting for us, rubbing his hands in anticipation of a lucrative evening.

  "Ah. The Lotus Blossom her own self." He smiles, showing an unpleasant set of yellow teeth. "Are you ready to go?"

  I stick out my hand. "As soon as I receive one half up-front. Twenty-five pounds sterling now, the rest ... after ... as agreed, Mr. Creespo?"

  Benny the Creepo reaches into his pocket and pulls out the required coins and drops them into my outstretched palm. As I slip them into the tiny beaded purse that hangs at my hip, I reflect that I have already made considerable money at prostitution. First it was my gallant French artillery major, whom I took back to my room at 127 Rue de Londres in Paris, and now this. All the while, I've remained ... well ... a maiden ... sort of.

  "You'd better be worth it, sweetheart, or your ass will pay," warns the ever pleasant Creepo, gesturing me toward a waiting carriage. "My client is not a forgiving sort."

  I frost him with a look, then get in, with Ravi following close behind.

  The pimp whips out a linen hood and goes to put it on my head. "Tell the little wog to lie on the floor so he can't see where we're going."

  I nod for Ravi to follow his order, but shake my head at the hood. I pull from my sleeve a silken scarf.

  I am actually somewhat relieved to see the hood being brought out—it ensures that we are going to Flashby himself. I mean, Crespo could have had some other client in mind, and had that happened, I would have feigned sudden sickness and brought things to a quick halt. But, no, it's Flashby for sure.

  "Take your filthy cloth away, whoremaster," I say, wrapping my scarf around my eyes and tying it behind my head. "I will do it myself. There. Satisfied?"

  He checks the blindfold to make sure I cannot see out and then calls to the driver to proceed.

  Oh, don't worry, scum, my eyes are quite blind—but then, again, I do not have to see, for I know exactly where we are going.

  As we clatter along, Crespo cannot resist making pointed remarks about how he and I might get together after, as he puts it, "my client has broken you in, as it were."

  I maintain a stony silence until we arrive at our destination.

  "All right, you can take off the blindfold," says Crespo, as the coach comes to a stop. "Get out."

  I pull off the scarf and, without moving, give him a kick in the shins.

  "You will open zee door for zee Lotus Blossom, pig."

  He grunts and reluctantly gets out and holds the door for me, and I climb out and down, followed by a silent, and I know very worried, Ravi.

  "Later," says Creepo, under his foul breath. "Then we shall see."

  Yes, we shall, Mr. Crespo, oh yes, we certainly shall...

  We are escorted to the door and, after a few hard raps of the knocker, it is opened by a big surly ruffian showing a lot of muscle and not much in the way of forehead or neck. I make sure my veil is securely in place.

  "Here is tonight's offering for our Mr. X," announces my slimy escort, smiling and handing me in.

  "Awroight," says the thug. "Getcherself gone, pimp."

  The door closes behind me and I am led up the stairs. I notice, on my way, that there are several more guards on station, each one looking more brutal than the last. Harry Flashby is being very careful. I notice also that the guard finds Ravi's presence unremarkable—there must have been many rather bizarre combinations of visitors to these rooms in the past—and much more bizarre than the mere addition of a little boy to this evening's ... entertainment.

  When we get to the fourth floor, the brute shoves me to the wall and begins frisking me for hidden weapons... very thoroughly inspecting me ... His hand goes up the inside of my leg.

  Expecting this, I did not wear my shiv this night, and feeling miffed at being so handled, I bring the back of my hand across my abuser's face and hiss, "Hands off, churl!"

  He starts back and then snarls, "Listen, bitch, I'll—"

  Just then I hear a latch thrown and a door opens behind me. I turn my veiled face and there stands Lieutenant Henry Flashby, glowing cigar clenched in his teeth, his mouth framed by his luxurious mustachio. I force myself to be calm and not leap upon the bastard and claw out his eyes.

  "Now, Randolph, you shall have her back later, and on her knees ... just like the others ... Just be patient, hmmm...?"

  The guard retreats, fixing me with his gaze, as Flashby bows and waves me into his room. I enter, with Ravi right behind me.

  The room is laid out just as Joannie and I had observed when we had trained our long glass from the rooftop. The bed is in the center of the room with the window beyond. There is a washstand, a wardrobe, and a bureau upon which sits a lit lamp. Good ... no chairs ... The only place to sit is on the bed.

  "Ha! I get you and the little wog, too! Capital! He can watch and see how Englishmen do the job!" Flashby puts his arms about me, ready to get down to business right away, but I push him gently away, murmuring, "Please, Honorable Master, if we take this slowly, it will be much more pleasurable for you. The Lotus Blossom promises many, many fine things ... Things you will never forget ... Please to sit, and she will now dance for you."

  "Very well, let's see what you've got." He plunks his rump down on the bed, grinning in anticipation. There is a small table next to him and on it is a bottle of gin and several glasses. He takes a drink from the nearest glass, draining it. He is dressed only in breeches and white undershirt. It is plain that he does not stand on ceremony. "Here, have a drink, Lotus Bottom, or whatever it is you call yourself."

  "I prefer," I reply, shaking my head, all demure—"when I am with such a handsome man, not to dull my senses so that I will be better able to enjoy his tender touch."

  I let slip the silken shawl that covers my head and it floats to the floor, exposing not only my smooth head, but also my bare midriff, which has my emerald firmly implanted in my bellybutton.

  "Good Lord, look at that," breathes Flashby. "I gotta feeling you're gonna be worth every cent, girl."

  "This girl hopes she pleases you," I whisper, hands together, big eyes gazing at him over the top edge of the veil. "What shall this humble one call you, Master?"

  "Master's good," he says. "I rather like that. However, the name's Henry, but you can call me Sir Harry," he says, leering, his lips rolling the cigar around twixt his teeth. "Now let me see your face."

  "Honorable Sir Harry-san. I will show you my face in a very little while, and then the rest of my poor self, too ... But now this worthless one shall dance for you. I know you will enjoy. Ravi?" I say, and nod to the lad. He puts the Indian flute—the one we had gotten in Burma, the one with the bulbous end—to his l
ips and begins to softly play the simple but exotic sounding melody I had taught him over the past few days. Yes, it is that time-honored tune: There's a place in France where the ladies wear no pants. And the dance they do is called the hootchy-kootchy-koo. And yes, I begin doing a version of that old hootchy-koo dance. It has served girls like me in good stead in the past, and it serves me well now.

  "Oh, you bet your sweet, sweet ass!" exclaims my gallant consort. "Dance on!"

  Out in the hall I had put on my finger cymbals, and now, putting palms together over my head and gently chiming the things, I begin to dance, swaying myself and my hips as sinuously as I can. When I was at Chopstick Charlie's place, I had observed several performances of Arabic belly-dancing, and had picked up a few of the moves from the girls residing there. It's enough to get by with this lustful bastard, anyway.

  I twitch the belly muscles enough to make the emerald jump around a bit, anyway, turn around and shake the tail, and then turn around again. This time, as I gyrate about, I reach up for the brooch on my shoulder and unfasten it. The top of my sari immediately loosens and begins to fall away, unwrapping swath by swath, fold by fold.

  Looking over Flashby's head, I see a pair of feet appear in the window, and then knees, and then the rest of Davy Jones being lowered from above in a Bo'sun's chair. When his face is full in the window, I nod to Ravi, who redoubles his blowing of the flute, while I bring my finger cymbals to either side of Flashby's head, one by each ear to cover any sound of the window being opened.

  Flashby reaches up and takes the end of the silken cloth that is slowly slipping from my body. The sari has now completely fallen from my chest and is bunched about my waist. Flashby, breathing a bit more labored now, begins unwinding the rest of the garment and I move ever closer to him as he does it, my finger cymbals ringing in his ears, my voice still singing.

  When the sari is fully unwound and lies on the floor leaving me completely unclothed, I nod to Ravi, who trails off his piping and goes silently to the window to open the latch. Flashby is otherwise engaged and does not notice.

  I keep the finger cymbals clanging as I see Davy slowly lift the window sash and then climb into the room, belaying pin in his belt.

  Flashby now has a hand firmly on each of my buttocks, with objective plainly in sight, and is about to bury his nose where it don't belong when he happens to glance to the side and notices my HMS Dolphin blue anchor tattoo sitting on my hip. He jerks back, and I can see memory tugging at his jasmine- and lust-fogged brain.

  "Wot?...You...? No..."

  "Yes, it's me, you rotten son of a bitch!" I snarl, yanking the veil aside.

  He stares incredulously into my face and is about to cry out when Davy slams the belaying pin down on the back of his head.

  Joannie follows Davy into the room, with Tink and Toby right behind them. Joannie flips me the bag containing my black burglar's gear. I rip it open and dump out its contents.

  "Quick! Get him bound up before he wakes up! And quiet!" I hiss. "Shhhh! There's a guard right outside that door!"

  Tink and Toby bend to their task while Davy wraps a gag around Flashby's mouth and cinches it behind his head. Just in time, too, for the captive is starting to wake up. His eyes look about, dazed, and then focus on me ... His stunned look is replaced by one of sheer terror.

  I sit on the floor to pull on the black pants and jersey and cram the watch cap down on my head. Then I get up and see that they have done an excellent job of trussing up our Flashby, just like any Christmas goose. His hands are tied behind him and strands of good thick rope are coiled tightly about his legs. Ah, yes, trust seasoned sailors to know how to go about these things!

  Toby goes to the open window and signals to the Shankies on the roof and presently a large iron hook at the end of a rope is lowered and brought inside to be affixed to the ropes that bind Flashby's ankles.

  His head back inside, Toby quietly says, "All right, lads, take a strain."

  The slack goes out of the line and Flashby is taken, wriggling for all he is worth, out the window, to dangle upside down in the night air.

  I go to the window and look down. Sure enough, a wagon drawn by two horses and driven by John Thomas, with Finn McGee beside him, has pulled up below.

  Flashby's face, which hangs on a level with mine, is flushed bright red, partly from the blood rushing to his head on account of his being upside down and part from fury.

  I reach out and tap him on his nose.

  "You like your Lotus Blossom, Sir Harry-san?" I say. "You velly happy man, now? Good." Then I gesture to those on the roof. "Lower him down."

  And lower him they do.

  After we've ascertained that Finn McGee has gathered Sir Harry, none too gently, into the wagon, Joannie and Tink slide down the rope. Then it is Davy, with Ravi clinging to his neck, and then, finally, me.

  When I am in, I give the rope two jerks and the dangling block and tackle is drawn up. The Shankies will dispose of the rope, the pulley, and the Bo'sun's chair, and all evidence of our being there will have disappeared.

  We head joyously back to the Nancy B, all of us singing away in the London night, with our feet firmly planted upon the recumbent form of Lieutenant Harry Flashby, late of the Naval Intelligence Service, and soon to be the bait for a certain Black Highwayman.

  Chapter 42

  If there's one thing the crew of the Nancy B. knows how to do, it's how to celebrate, and celebrate we do after we bring our struggling captive aboard and plunk him down in a chair in my cabin.

  Wine, rum, and ale are passed all around, along with trays of spicy snacks brought up from the galley by Lee Chi. We all fall to, delighted with the spread and with our own cunning and daring in bringing our quarry to bay.

  Poor Flashby is still bound tight—hands, arms, and feet—and his mouth is gagged, so he cannot, alas, join in the festivities. It's unfortunate, because he is the guest of honor, after all.

  There are not enough places for everyone to sit in my small cabin, so Davy and Tink grab two of the chairs and Liam yet another, while Joannie and Ravi sit on the bed. Seamen Thomas and McGee squat by the door, clubs in hand. No sense in allowing ourselves to be caught unawares, is there?

  I, myself, plump the black-clad Faber tail down on the unfortunate Flashby's lap and place my finger on his nose, his mustache sticking out over the top of the gag, all bristly and comical. "This is where you wanted the Lotus Blossom to be, isn't it, Sir Harry-san? Well, here she is. It's too bad that this will probably be the last female bottom to sit in your lap before you are taken off to be thrown into the fires of Hell. Perhaps Satan will give you a loathsome female demon all slimy and scaly and stinking of brimstone to cuddle with. I trust you will find her charming."

  Laughter all around. Flashby is not particularly loved by this company, and all are greatly enjoying his discomfiture.

  His eyes wide with fear, he tries to speak, but all that comes out is an incoherent mumble.

  "Our ever-so-charming Mr. Flashby is being uncharacteristically quiet, do you not all agree?" I ask with raised eyebrows. "I do believe he wants to speak. Shall we loosen his tongue? John Thomas, please bring your club over here." John Thomas gets up and goes to the side of Harry Flashby.

  "Show him your club, John."

  John Thomas, grinning, dangles his belaying pin before Flashby's eyes. He taps the club lightly on the bridge of the captive's nose.

  "Mr. Flashby. We are going to remove your gag so that you might speak to those of us gathered here. You know we are your friends, but if you should even consider for one moment crying out for help, Seaman Thomas there will bring his bludgeon down upon your face, smashing your nose and probably a good many of your teeth. Do you understand that, Mr. Flashby?"

  Flashby nods.

  "Ravi. Please relieve our guest of his mouthpiece."

  Ravi bounces down off the bed and goes behind Flashby's head and unties the gag, casting aside the limp and soggy rag in disgust.

  While Flash
by coughs and clears his throat, I run my finger lightly down the side of his face and ask, "What is it you want to say, noble Flashby?"

  "I ... I've got to relieve myself."

  "Oh? Hmmm ... I have noticed, dear one, that you have to do that a lot when you are in some danger," I say, thinking back to our time on the Mississippi, when I had Flashby walk the plank, and he did not present a very noble figure.

  I jump off his lap and look toward the chamber pot that sits in the corner. Then I glance at his bound arms and laugh. "If you think for one minute, Harry Flashby, that I'm going to pull that thing out and hold it for you while you are eased of your discomfort, then you are sadly mistaken."

  Coarse laughter all around.

  "Joannie, do you want to help out our guest in his time of need?" I tease.

  "Eeeeeww," she squeals and dives behind my bed.

  "Oh, well," I say, ruffling Flashby's hair. "We cannot have you messing up the cushion of my fine chair, now can we? We'd never get rid of the stench. John Thomas, Finn, please take our guest back up to the head, and do what you can."

  Thomas and McGee come over to grab our captive and carry him away.

  "Don't worry, Cap'n," grunts McGee. "We knows what to do with the sod."

  They carry him out and I say, "Give us a song, Davy, to celebrate this fine day!"

  And we do "Hearts of Oak" and "The Bonny Ship the Diamond" with much gusto and great acclaim, and presently the bound form of Harry Flashby is brought back into my cabin.

  "And how did you manage the task, my fine fellows?" I ask of Thomas and McGee as they dump their burden back in his chair.