“This is Daniel Wren,” said Grimmel, assuming a more gentlemanly posture. “You know Mr. Hines, of course, and this fine fellow is Liam Smith.”
This jolly fellow shook our hands and clapped us on our backs and ordered cups of rice wine all around.
Room was made at the table for us and we took our seats. Belfry had just arrived on the Seahorse from the Indian coast and had many a lively tale to tell. And a sublime yarn spinner he was, too, for every story was an airy castle raised stone upon stone from base to pinnacle with the care of a master mason. Each story began with a cough that found your ear, with him beetling his brow in concentration, then a simple: “Did I ever tell you…”
With Grimmel urging him on for the next several hours we drank our rice wine and the older sailors talked of bygone times and their adventures. Many in Belfry’s crew came around to pump the hands of Grimmel and Hines.
The conversation strayed to the war raging between the general and the young emperor Kangxi.
“All over a bloody haircut,” said Belfry. “The Manchu took over the country and forced the Han Chinese to wear the pigtail of the Manchu as a show of loyalty to their new emperor, who’s but a boy. It became either haircut or head. The general and his lot refused.
“General Jheng Jiing wants to be the future king of Taiwan,” he continued. “The girl, Wen Xi, was captured by the general’s men. Her father is the Duke Ebilun of the Niohuru. Now she’s forced to be his concubine. I tell you, there’s a fine prize for the fellow who can deliver her up.”
“And why does the general not have your head?”
“I trade with him,” answered Belfry. “Sees me as his admiral.”
Near midnight when most were in a balmy haze and the conversation had thinned, Grimmel took a more earnest tone.
“Now, Captain Belfry,” said he, “we did not expect to find you in Amoy, and I for one, am a little confounded by the discovery, sir.”
Belfry had caught a whiff of burning smoke from his pipe into his left eye and held it shut, while the open eye cast about at the faces in vague anticipation.
“A terrible day indeed,” whispered Grimmel. “To think I must be the one to bear these black tidings.”
“What’s black about it, you old soaker?” demanded Belfry. “Perhaps the bowl of my pipe might clear your thick head.”
“If you have heard already, don’t sport with me,” Grimmel said, teasing Belfry’s patience anew. “Tell me true, you have not heard the news?”
“If I had a ball and pistol, I’d shoot out his other eye,” said Belfry, smiling gamely at Hines, Smith and myself. None of his men returned the smile.
“The Crown has declared you a pirate,” said Grimmel. “An outlaw.”
Now both eyes were open and large. He dropped his heavy boots from the table to the floor and set his hands on his knees like one bracing for a laugh.
“Ha!” roared Belfry. “A sad joke! A cod could beat you at that game.”
“It’s true.”
Belfry looked to Hines, who nodded his head.
“We travel under orders to capture you, if we so encounter,” said Hines.
“I have a Letter of Marque—” cried Belfry, his mouth gaping wide.
“—Rescinded,” declared Grimmel, contentedly picking a particle from his cup, then taking a sip. “Because of that nasty affair with our allies the Dutch, who accuse you of burning two of their plantations to the ground.”
Belfry was up on his feet in an instant, plaintively addressing the whole room as if his battle had now extended to every man in it.
“They are lying swine!” he shouted, drawing a general silence in the pub. “Two brothers were the overseers to those plantations. They beat their workers blind and they run off. And those two villains burnt up the plantations themselves, afraid the Company would hang them. They falsely laid the thing to me! The filthy Dutch!”
“You have all our sympathy—” began Grimmel.
“—They can’t do this thing to me!” bellowed Belfry. “I fought the Dutch in three wars! Now they drop me overboard, without so much as a kind word or a mark of respect! —”
Belfry railed until everyone knew the story, then sank miserably back into his seat.
When we returned to the Sovereign, Captain Hearne was at the rail with his glass, observing a bonfire in the distance. Two nights I had seen him do so. He lowered the glass and regarded Grimmel.
“Did you encounter Captain Belfry?” he asked.
“Aye, sir,” Grimmel replied. “And in fair health.”
Hearne dismissed us with a nod.
Grimmel was impatient to report his evening with Belfry to Mr. Stempel, who we found down in surgery, sweating profusely from the fever. Grimmel merrily recounted his exchange with Belfry over and over again, embellishing each retelling with new details, until Stempel fell into a laughing fit of coughing that made his hammock sway to and fro.
“Tell us you’ll be making shore with us tomorrow,” said Grimmel. “Belfry will need your support.”
“Weeping many endure for a night,” said Stempel weakly, “but joy cometh in the morning.”
“Rest now, my friend,” said Hines sweetly. “’Till the morning then.”
In the morning I learned that Mr. Stempel had succumbed to his illness and died. His request was always that he be buried at sea. That afternoon, after a heartfelt ceremony, Stempel’s body was rowed out to the edge of blue water and deposited with the Almighty. He was much beloved by the crew, and particularly by Grimmel.
Chapter 11
The Volcano
A perfect bloom was selected that afternoon and planted into an elegant jade vase. I was to accompany Lord Douglas to the residence of Wen Xi to make the presentation.
Greyson and I found an official embassy of six waiting when he arrived at the dock, led by our little interpreter. Our carriage was elaborately decorated with beast-like carved heads with menacing teeth and great bulging eyes, highly colored panels and a round canopy to shade the travelers from the sun, though it was a clear, breezy day. Two small horses drew it. Mr. Wong bowed and bowed and gestured us into the cart.
The driver of the carriage proceeded along a precarious rocky path, which led up a steep incline perhaps a mile from the shore. As we climbed, a lovely view of the harbor rose up, and I could see the Sovereign resting at anchor atop a twinkling bay and the winding parapets that led out to the fortresses.
The four portly soldiers trudged in the dust behind our carriage the whole way, toting formidable ceremonial axes on their armored shoulders and daggers bristling from their belts. None of them carried firearms, but all were so uniform in appearance that one could have taken them for brothers.
“Red is Chinese good luck color,” remarked Wong, admiring the rose. “She will be most pleased.”
“We have heard that Mistress Wen Xi is a very beautiful woman,” said Greyson.
“Yes, yes, yes,” replied Wong. “Much beautiful. Han Chinese beauty—most beautiful.”
The path turned sharply, the bay disappeared, and suddenly a large compound loomed before us. There were no windows or doors, only a single, large stone gate. Our little procession halted and Wong nimbly hopped down and vanished through the gate. The soldiers took up their positions beside two more brothers stationed outside the gate. An hour passed wordlessly between Greyson and myself. Only the taunting screech of sea gulls overhead occasionally broke the silence. Water was brought out for the soldiers in large buckets, but none was offered to their visitors. Wong finally reappeared, impatiently waving for us to follow.
“Wen Xi will grant you audience,” he said.
The dreadful, tarrying little fellow ushered us into an impressive courtyard which was lavishly planted with fruit trees, scented shrubs and flowering vines, all laid out with scrupulous symmetry and thought. The austere face that marked the exterior of the compound gave way to a vista of open rooms and corridors leading into the living quarters. In all, I counted nine bays that
composed the compound.
Several cats darted about through the shrubs and bushes, pampered creatures; and it occurred to me that, aside from the two horses, they were the first such animals I had seen since we arrived.
Six women in pretty silk robes in shades of amber, green and earthy browns stood before the largest bay. The women’s lustrous black hair was pulled back from their faces and piled high onto their heads in various styles, cleverly accented with attractive adornments.
“Which lady is the honorable Wen Xi?” asked Greyson in a whisper.
“She will arrive in small moment,” answered Wong, exchanging gracious smiles with the ladies.
We waited longer than a moment, when two women charged out from the bay in the midst of a noisy squabble. One was an old woman with a face like a weathered board, the other, young, near my own age. The old woman was doggedly attempting to straighten the young woman’s disheveled robes to cover a naked breast that peeked out. The younger woman merely slapped her hand away with angry disdain.
The tempest came to an abrupt halt as the young lady caught sight of us, and, hands defiantly on her hips, glared down at the rose I was holding.
“May I present the honorable Wen Xi,” said Wong with a humble sweep of his arm.
I bowed and scraped more out of reflex to her lively entrance than to decorum. The other women now stood stone-faced with chagrin.
It was evident the woman had been aroused from slumber, for her eyes were glassy and a rosy wrinkle was impressed on her cheek. Her hair was in utter disarray; the breeze was picking wild strands to whip about like the braids of Medusa. Yet she was a remarkable beauty. The powder and paint of the other ladies were revealed as false coin by her unsullied loveliness. Her fragile form seemed to hold so much fire and force that I felt as if I were glimpsing a revelation of spirit. As she looked about, every angle of her countenance inspired fresh fascination for her beauty.
“Most honorable Wen Xi,” Greyson began, “this flower we call the Wen Rose in your great honor.” He nodded to me and, coming out of my reverie, I stepped forward and extended the vase. She glanced at it dismissively and one of her attendants demurely stepped forward to claim it. “We sincerely hope that it comes to symbolize the friendship of our two peoples, and express our joy and gladness at your wedding.”
I anticipated Wong’s translation, but our friend remained silent. Wen Xi then snatched the vase from the maiden’s hand, and sent it crashing to the ground.
“No honor!” she shouted. “No honor, English man!” With raw fury, she spewed invective in her native tongue—at the old woman, at Wong, and at the ladies, then rounded on us. “You go!” she shouted at us. “Leave! I hate honor!”
Directed by the old woman, the maidens took hold of her forcefully and dragged her kicking and screaming back into the bay.
Mr. Wong seemed amused by it all and let out a loud chuckle.
“You didn’t say she could speak English,” remarked Greyson.
“She speak bad English,” said Wong, laughing, then slyly: “General will have a spirited horse in his stable. Maybe he stop riding now.”
“I’m sorry she didn’t like the rose,” said I.
“We will plant them,” said Wong, gesturing. “She must see them everywhere and learn to accept.”
On our return the view of the harbor appeared again at our feet. Mr. Wong rose up from his seat, alert to a new detail in the painting: A large, impressive junk was easing into the harbor, flags and banners fluttering and men like ants scurrying across its decks, followed by a flotilla of smaller vessels.
“General Jheng Jiing has returned,” said Wong, with a note of anxiety.
Soldiers were dashing about the wharves in all directions, assembling themselves in formations, while anxious officers shrieked orders. Drums were pounding somewhere in the distance. All of Amoy was on its feet.
Lord Douglas and I marveled at the riot of activity on the boat ride back to the Sovereign.
In his cabin, I found Jacob Hearne had the maps of Amoy spread out before him. He, Grimmel, Whitehead and several of the other officers were pouring over the details of the city’s defenses, which had been surreptitiously scouted since our arrival.
“What is all that banging and clatter out there?” asked Hearne with irritation.
“General Jheng Jiing has returned home, sir,” I said.
“One ship, three fortresses!” he grumbled, now shoving the maps away. “The only way this can play out to advantage is to have some distraction that tosses the lot of them into confusion. If we simply open fire, they’ll break us into splinters.”
“What manner of distraction, Captain?” asked Whitehead.
“The eruption of a volcano,” replied Hearne, ruefully sitting back into his chair and reaching out for a bottle of port. “Yes, a volcano should do quite nicely.”
One of the boatswains knocked and stuck his head into the room, respectfully doffing his cap.
“Captain, sir, a visitor wishes permission to board.”
“Who’s that?” asked Hearne.
“Captain Robert Belfry, sir.”
“Belfry?!” declared Hearne with a delighted chuckle. “Well, gentlemen, that saves us a deal of trouble, doesn’t it?” He turned back to the boatswain. “By all means, show him in.”
This lifted the captain’s mood considerably.
“One less straw for our backs, aye, boys?” said he. “He comes to surrender. Oh, what a fine fellow!”
A moment later, Belfry entered, attired in a smart suit of clothes that marked his distinction as a captain and his success as a privateer. He held a great plumed hat in his hands and wore a stoic expression.
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, Captain Hearne,” said Belfry with dignity. “I am Robert Belfry.”
I noted Grimmel was alternately grinning and convulsing with barely-stifled chuckles. Belfry dismissed him with a contemptuous glance.
“My pleasure, Captain Belfry,” replied Hearne. “Would you kindly allow our boatswain here to relieve you of your sword and pistols, sir?”
“My sword, Captain?”
“You are under arrest,” explained Hearne, as Belfry’s weapons were quickly gathered. “We have learned you are a wicked fellow indeed, Captain.”
“Lies, lies, and more lies,” protested Belfry. “This is not the custom of a welcome, Captain.”
“Perhaps not, but we are all deeply grateful that you have saved us the complication of apprehending you.”
“That’s not why I come,” said Belfry. “I come to propose a truce, sir.”
“Truce?”
“Aye, sir,” continued Belfry. “I heard whispers that you were up to an action here.” He shot a quick glance at Grimmel, who winced sourly at the words. Hearne followed his gaze to Grimmel and frowned with irritation. “And am come to offer my assistance.”
“What assistance could you possibly give—that we would possibly accept?”
“Well,” said Belfry, stepping forward and surveying the maps with a quick eye. “I see here you have the defenses marked out. That can’t be your game, can it, Captain.”
“Seeing you have lost your liberty,” returned Hearne, “I see no disadvantage to the truth. It is.”
“Slender odds,” remarked Belfry.
“Tell me, Captain,” said Hearne, changing his focus. “I have seen bonfires day and night and dung carts by the hour. Ash, charcoal, salt peter. Would there be a black powder mill in the city?”
“Aye, sir,” answered Belfry. “A large one, too.” He laid his finger on a section of the map. “Lies right there, behind the temple. Was a grain mill, but Jiing took it over to make gunpowder. They have sulfur mines and transport it here.”
“They use grinding stones then?”
“They do,” replied Belfry. “And their prisoners grind it dry, too.”
“Dry, you say?”
“They are desperate for powder on the mainland. They cannot grind it fast enough, and if
they were to dampen it, which is the proper and safe way, it takes too long to dry.”
“Forgive my manners, Captain,” said Hearne. “Please have a seat. You mentioned a truce?”
Belfry elbowed Grimmel subtly out of his path as he took a place opposite Hearne. He studied the port bottle long enough for Hearne to reach across and pour him a drink.
“Thank you, sir,” said he, downing the port. “What I propose, Captain, is that me and my mates and the Seahorse aid you in your affairs here to clear our good names.”
“How might you do that?”
Belfry picked up three glasses and strategically placed them around the map.
“Here’s the Sovereign,” said he, indicating our position in the harbor. “The northern and southern fortress you have in good position; it would require heavy and sustained fire to knock them out. But the western fortress, here, is out of range. You would have to complete your business with these two, taking on lead yourself, and then, with luck, make it to the western fortress, which would be waiting for you with all her fuses glowing.”
“Let’s suppose you are correct, Captain.”
“I say let the Seahorse fire on the western fortress. We’ll take it out.”
“And what would that cost me?”
“A scrap of paper and a promise.”
“I’m listening,” said Hearne. “Tell me first about the paper.”
“A letter to the Crown and Admiralty Board stating that I assisted in this affair out of love and loyalty, and that you have determined that, upon investigation, the accusations about me were Dutch lies.”
“And the promise?” inquired Hearne.
“The girl, Wen Xi, Captain,” said Belfry. “You see, I’ve been cultivating a certain Chinese captain of her guard with bribes, sir. The general’s own men feel the war is lost. I was hoping to snatch her up and return her home. There’s a sweet prize for her.”
“What’s my promise?”
“That you will split that prize with me.”
“Oh, I think not,” said Hearne, yawning and stretching his arms extravagantly.
“What?!” barked Belfry.
“A small portion of that prize should find its way back to the Crown,” said Hearne. “Your share. Paper alone might not satisfy.”
Mean Sun (The Diaries of Daniel Wren, Privateer Book 1) Page 10
