Mean Sun (The Diaries of Daniel Wren, Privateer Book 1)

by Gerry Garibaldi

  “The general wishes you to be guests at his table,” said Wong.

  The general’s throne was carried off the dais and placed at the head of the main table. We were seated to his left. Rice wine and food were dispatched to the tables. The dishes were simple fare; rice, diced roots and vegetables, and meats of various sorts. I took a spare bit of dumpling and, the bloody heads still swaying in my mind, shoved it about in my plate, nibbling at the edges.

  Little more was said for an hour, while everyone ate. Through Mr. Wong, the general made several courteous inquiries about our taste for the food and insisted to the servers that our bowls were never empty. Musicians were brought out and played for much of the next hour. The general politely waited until we’d filled our bellies before any discussion was broached. Finally, he addressed Mr. Wong, who then turned to us.

  “The general says that he appreciates your alliance against the Manchu,” said Mr. Wong. “The invaders hope to drive us from our homeland and rule all the Han people. We cannot permit this to happen.”

  “No, sir,” chimed in Mr. Brooks. “Unfortunately, England cannot join your war as a combatant. We merely wish to trade, great general.”

  “Our needs go beyond flowers,” was the general’s response.

  Lord Douglas lifted his cup of wine in a salute to the general.

  “Let us pray, then, general, that your victory is at hand.”

  Wong cocked his ear again toward the general, now more alert. A man who had been standing behind the general, near the dais, brought a document forth. He quickly extended the paper to the general, who spoke again to Wong.

  “The general says, he has taken liberty to draw up an agreement for trade agreement between us,” said Wong, indicting the paper. “This will confirm our trading partnership and your country’s firm commitment to our general’s government.”

  Lord Douglas regarded the document, somewhat taken aback.

  “I am not authorized to put my signature to a contract for the Crown, sir,” said Greyson. “Especially one written in Chinese.”

  “There is an English translation here—” said Wong, uncovering a second document and handing it over. General Jheng Jiing studiously watched our faces.

  “I am sorry, General,” reiterated Greyson, “but I must deliver these first to my superiors in government and my company before any such agreement can be completed. Tell the general that I would be most happy to do so upon our immediate return to England.”

  After Wong translated Greyson’s words, the general rose genially from his chair. A lit pipe was handed to him and, contentedly taking a few puffs, began to stroll off toward the neighboring table, tossing one last remark to Wong.

  “The general wishes, Lord Douglas, that you remain in the compound as his honored guest this evening.”

  Hearne suddenly rose to his feet and called out to the general.

  “We have one hundred and eighty chests of opium, General!” declared Hearne. “This to seal the commitment of our government. Aboard our ship and delivered on the morrow.”

  No one was more surprised than Lord Douglas, who took Hearne in with a dumbfounded expression. As our interpreter conveyed the offer to the general, the general regarded Captain Hearne warily, then with a smile and a reply.

  “The general is greatly pleased with your gift,” said the little man. “It affirms your friendly intentions. He is very pleased indeed, Captain Hearne. Tomorrow wagons will be sent to the dock.”

  The general and some of his cohorts took up some other distraction at the tables nearby. Hearne stood and moved a little way away. He gestured cordially for Lord Douglas and the rest of us to join him. He was smiling pleasantly, but his voice betrayed his quiet anger.

  “Why did you not sign the agreement?” demanded Hearne.

  “I don’t represent the Crown—” Greyson began in confusion at the captain’s harsh tone.

  “He doesn’t know that!” Hearne shot back, cutting off Lord Douglas. “Your general here intends to take my ship.”

  Greyson was flummoxed and cast his eye back at the general and his officers.

  “How can you know that?”

  “It’s what I would do, my lord,” replied Hearne, his eyes narrowing as he worked the calculus of our fate. “He has taken our measure, a sick crew; he read your weakness. The opium will buy us one day.”

  He turned urgently to Whitehead. “In a moment dismiss yourself, Mr. Whitehead. Return to the ship with Mr. Wren, and load the cannon with grape in case they decide to board this evening. We must salt the powder mill tonight. Immediately. Mr. Brooks, send word to Belfry.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” replied Mr. Brooks.

  Hearne rested his hand on Lord Douglas’ shoulder.

  “You, my lord,” said Hearne, “are the general’s prisoner.”

  I could see that Lord Douglas’ head was swimming. The alarm on his face was as plain as a signal flag.

  “Keep your game up, my lord,” said Hearne. “Smile, drink your cup, sir.”

  “Will they kill me then?”

  “Ransom, most likely,” said Hearne. “Will your company pay, my lord?”

  This question directed Lord Douglas’ thoughts on a new thread. After a glimmer of speculation in his eyes, his face darkened.

  “They will trim their losses,” said Lord Douglas softly. “You see, Captain, both of us were light risk.”

  “Mr. Wren,” said the captain, turning to me, “we may be requiring your service as a pilot. Have you learned your lessons well?”

  “I believe so, sir,” was my tepid reply.

  “Very good,” said Hearne. “Mr. Whitehead here will secure you a ship. Send a boat back for me in an hour.”

  Mr. Wong returned with one of the ceremonial guards, now unarmed. He bowed sweetly to Lord Douglas, resting his hand on the guard’s shoulder.

  “This gentleman, Lord Douglas,” said Wong, “will escort you to your rooms when you wish to retire.”

  He repeated the message in Chinese back to the guard, who bowed politely.

  Within minutes I was back on board the Sovereign with Mr. Whitehead. As ordered, a boat with marines was dispatched to the south end of the harbor. Mr. Grimmel led me to the chart room, where he presented me with charts, a sextant and all other items necessary to pilot a boat. He placed them all in a wooden chest.

  “It will be good that you are not aboard, Mr. Wren,” said he, tucking a loaded pistol into my belt. “We are in for a bloody brawl.”

  “Why must I travel separately?”

  “You will have passengers. We cannot wait to board them. When you hear the blast from the mill, be prepared to slip away.”

  “What is my destination?”

  “Canton, where we shall meet up, God willing,” said Grimmel. “Your wind will be flighty, south by southwest. Mind the leeward shore. And there will be fog this time of year. Keep to blue sea as much as you are able, for there will be hostile ships everywhere.” Like a doting father, he straightened the collar of my jacket. “I advised them to choose you a speedy vessel, Mr. Wren. It is better to fly than engage. Robert Jacobs and two others will manage the sail. He has experience with these junks.”

  A voice called out to announce the return of the boat.

  “Have no fear, Mr. Wren,” said Grimmel with finality. “You will not lose yourself.”

  Chapter 13

  Murder by Moonlight

  Irony of ironies! The moon that evening was as bright as the sun and hung over Amoy like the happy eye of God.

  A clear, cloudless moon, Grimmel taught me, was a good omen and portended well for sailing weather. Mr. Robert Jacobs, one of our boatswains, stood in the shadow of the cabin. Two others were resting against the rails, keeping out of sight.

  Marines had seized the ship from its sleeping owners. It was a Chinese lugger, easily manned by a crew of four, with a single stern chaser, which was now loaded with grape. The owners had been killed and eased into the harbor, but I could see no blood or sign of up
heaval anywhere.

  The ship had been chosen for her position in the harbor, just beneath the eastern fortress, her snout pointed to sea.

  There were boats hard by and I could hear voices and movement aboard them. Once or twice through the night I caught sight of a figure hustling along the docks on some business. By and large the night was silent. My coughing, though subdued, forced me to bundle my jacket and cover my mouth to stifle the sound.

  The moon disappeared and the ghost of false dawn approached. We hid in the cabin at the stern of the ship. It was a lightless little room with low ceilings and sundry objects that made the area impossible to maneuver in. So black was it that we could not make out what man was where and had to rely on whispers or coughs to guide us to each other’s presence. For lack of sleep we were all becoming hollow with fatigue.

  We listened to the torpid knock of the boats beating against the dock and the cries of fishermen making ready for sail. I heard a slap, then Rollins’ voice.

  “These biting flies and the mosquitoes will run me mad. Scratch and bleed is all I do, until my flesh burns like a brazier.”

  “An accursed country,” agreed Mr. Hall.

  “Hush!” whispered Mr. Jacobs urgently.

  Someone could be heard approaching our vessel. A man called out in Chinese. It was a greeting of some sort, perhaps the name of the owner of the boat. Standing closest to the door, I opened it just wide enough to spy the dingy figure of a man standing on the dock at the top of the short boarding ramp. The fellow gave a second shout, a bellow, as if to arouse the owner from slumber. Receiving no reply, the man hopped aboard and came straight for us.

  “We must take him,” hissed Jacobs.

  The man’s jaunty steps closed on us and came another shout, then a stout pounding on the cabin door. The man lifted the latch and shoved the door open.

  “Catch hold of him!” cried Mr. Jacobs.

  Several hands reached out, including mine, and tried to pull the fellow into the cabin. He let out a peal of horror and with all his might fought his attackers. He was lean and strong and skilled in combat, breaking our grips with sharp blows. Once he broke loose and make for the door, only to be caught by the leg by Mr. Jacobs. The man fell outside the cabin door, now shrieking and flailing away. The door was too narrow for any more than one man to fit through.

  “Shut him up!” cried the anguished Jacobs, holding fast. In the leavening dawn the pair of them could distinctly be seen. “Take my dagger! Wren, my dagger!”

  I reached into his belt, felt the cold handle of his knife and drew it from its scabbard.

  “Kill him, man!”

  The Chinese man was at the point of scrambling to his feet when I stepped boldly forward and sank the dagger into his back. Losing his footing, he fell mutely forward and landed on the deck with a pained whine. He rolled on his side, holding his naked hand up in self-defense. I rushed forward again and thrust the blade three more times into his chest.

  “Take hold of him!” ordered Jacobs. “Pull him in before we’re seen.”

  We roughly dragged him by his leg and arm into the cabin and shut the door. The event was an explosion in my mind. My heart was beating wildly and all the fatigue I had felt was burnt away from the heat of it.

  “Should we ship him?” asked Hall.

  “No,” replied Jacobs. “The body will bring attention. That will wait.”

  The man lay there, twitching and making strange gurgling sounds as he struggled to stay alive. The boatswain reclaimed his dagger from my wooden hand.

  “There may be more coming,” remarked Rollin.

  “We’ll handle them in the same manner, if they do,” said Jacobs. “Find something to wipe the blood from the deck.”

  Dawn was breaking in its full gleam. Mr. Rollin located a cushion beside the small bay window at the stern and crept out on hands and knees to clean up the ruby puddle. The dead Chinese was hauled by his shirt away from the entrance and dropped in a bloody heap.

  “Mr. Wren, you will keep a sharp eye on the Sovereign by the window, and don’t fall asleep,” said the boatswain. “The rest of you stand by the door for others who come along. Remember to use knives.”

  I reported to my station at the bay window, where I had a clear picture of our ship at anchor. Already a boat had been lowered to ferry the opium chests to the docks. When I brought my hand up to muffle a cough, the blood on my hands smeared my lips. There was more on my forearm. It was wet and only now turning cold. I wiped my still trembling hand on my trousers and returned my focus to the Sovereign.

  “What do you see, Wren?” Jacobs asked.

  “They’ve begun loading the chests,” I replied. “They’re using marines to row the load ashore.”

  “Marines?”

  “Six in the boat,” said I. “All red uniforms.”

  “How many boats?”

  “They’re lowering a second now.”

  “Marines, too?”

  I observed the second boat settle and rock against the Sovereign like a timid chick.

  “’Appears so, sir. One blue uniform.”

  “An officer?”

  I studied the profile of the man in the officer’s uniform.

  “It’s Mr. Brooks, sir.”

  “Two boats, one hundred eighty chests,” calculated the boatswain. “I’d say three hours at most to unload, if they drag their heels.” I peeked over and could see Jacob’s white whiskered face plainly. His beady blue eyes were set deep in thought. “What happens must happen between now and then.”

  The work unloading the opium proceeded steadily for over an hour, while several of the officers on board watched. All else appeared as usual in the harbor and along the quay, boats departing and arriving at their accustomed pace. Wagons on shore awaited the chests, quickly loaded them and sped away.

  When perhaps a hundred of the chests had been ferried ashore I began to notice a subtle but steady increase in the number of Chinese soldiers collecting on the docks and parapets.

  “The army is gathering, Mr. Jacobs,” I reported.

  “Aye, we see them,” said he, peering out the door.

  “I wonder if the captain is aware,” said Hall.

  “How does the ship stand, Mr. Wren?”

  It had been executed so cunningly that I only now saw that the Sovereign had come about on her anchor, perhaps only a few degrees, but enough so that her port and starboard batteries were presently facing the fortresses dead on.

  “Ready,” I replied.

  “And wicks smoking,” added Jacobs. “They’ll be firing over our heads and—”

  A deafening explosion drowned out the boatswain’s words, followed by a second and third. Edging back to the corner of the window I saw a mighty ball of flames and smoke languidly lifting into the air above the town. A series of smaller, vibrant explosions ensued. There was a riot of confusion along the harbor. Soldiers and their screaming officers went dashing this way and that toward the disturbance.

  “We’ll wait ‘till the Sovereign fires,” said the boatswain. “Then we’ll make ready to receive our passengers and sail.”

  Hearne carefully waited some minutes until the chaos in town reached its zenith. The ranks of the general’s troops in town thinned, and I could see flames breaking out in a quarter of the town. Finally, the ship’s gun ports lifted and an instant later every cannon and chaser, port and starboard, sang out. The old Sovereign’s timbers shuddered at the force of the volley, sending a trembling web of ripples toward shore that reached our own vessel. The ship’s iron balls hit their mark on the fortress walls above us, showering rocks and debris down onto our deck.

  “On deck, boys!” shouted Jacobs.

  We charged out of the cabin into the smoke and stony hail, taking our positions. I manned a six pound chaser at the ship’s stern that had been loaded with grape, while Jacobs and his mates made for the anchor winch and rigging lines.

  A second volley from the Sovereign flew overhead. The fortress walls buckled i
n several places from the concentrated fire, and large boulders came tumbling down the hillside, crashing onto the dock. Further out in the harbor the Seahorse was battering the walls of the western fortress in earnest. Rings of smoke went marching over the water in perfect lines toward the shore like great grey phantoms.

  The Sovereign got off two more volleys before the first hot reply from the shore fortresses came. Three cannons from the southern fortress sent their lead screaming toward the Sovereign. Two of the balls missed. The third, however, struck starboard at her waist. I did not discern where the ball hit, but I could see a cloud of debris rise above the rail and saw the scramble of men on deck.

  While the southern fortress reloaded, the eastern now fired. Two cannons sent their hot breaths over our heads. Both balls struck home, one directly above cannon number six, the other crashing into the stern gallery. My heart shrank as I imagined the chaos of splinters lancing the faces, arms and chests of my friends. In my mind’s eye I saw the sand around them red with blood. I heard the shouts and screams of men and officers working to pike the cannon back into firing position, while the wounded were carried off.

  The grand old lady spat back in their faces with another pair of mighty volleys. I made out the stout little figure of Jacob Hearne standing by the rail at the stern of the ship, in full regalia, intrepidly pacing to and fro amidst the maelstrom. I imagined his measured tones as his commands rang out across the deck.

  From another angle, I heard musket fire and caught a glimpse of red jackets through the tangled rigging of moored ships.

  “Here comes our baggage, boys!” shouted Mr. Jacobs.

  Three marines were scrambling along the dock under fire. With them was a woman. One of the marines was wounded in the arm and was weaponless. They drew nearer and peeping out from beneath a cape over her head I caught sight of the face of Wen Xi. The foursome rallied up the planks just as another cloud of debris rained down. Wen Xi and the wounded marine took shelter in the cabin.

  “We lost two men,” the sergeant of the marines declared, holding his arms over his head against the rubble.