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

by Gerry Garibaldi

  By the morning of the fourth day, I was at the prow straining for the sight of landfall, the mouth of the Pearl River, which I had estimated we should have encountered the previous day. Yet all morning the empty sea stretched out before us like a pot lid. I was certain I had misjudged our speed, and the others were certain, too. Mr. Woodman challenged the knots I had counted off twice that morning and, despite his total ignorance in all matters of navigation, insisted on attempting his own shot of the noonday sun.

  “The boy’s numbers are in error,” he declared to Jacobs, tossing him the octant. “See for yourself. I’d say we’d be better off tracking the first gull that blows past.”

  “We’ll make land, Mr. Woodman,” replied Jacobs.

  “Aye, China is a large target,” the marine shot back, “but on what far-flung mole hill, east or west, will we beach?”

  Mr. Jacobs laid his arm around my shoulder and led me off for a private counsel.

  “Remember this,” he said with a merry, gap-toothed grin, “our water is running low. If we don’t sight land soon, the men will hang you by the yardarm. First they’ll pluck an eye or two. That is the custom.”

  Late that afternoon, I was mercifully reprieved. Bits of wood and land debris began appearing on the surface. The sightings of gulls and other birds became more regular. The scent of land came before the sighting of it, faint traces of foliage and earth. Everyone was alert and kept a watchful eye on the horizon. It could’ve been the shores of India for all I knew, yet I was beside myself with delight when Mr. Hall cried out and pointed just off the larboard bow.

  “Land!”

  It appeared as a twist of cotton.

  “Where does that put us?” demanded Mr. Woodman, his voice ringing out across the deck.

  “Just east of the Pearl River,” I claimed.

  How far east I could not conceive. I consulted my charts for a landmark; several east of the Pearl River were noted, including a tower that was a part of a temple, which stood one hundred feet high. The soundings around the landmark showed treacherous shallows and jagged reefs. Hall held the 30-second sand glass, while I tossed the log line and counted; we were making way at seven knots, one less than an hour before.

  Hours passed before a tower came into view, though I was in a quandary as to whether or not it was the same. The junk eased closer at my request, but even with the aid of our long glass I could not be certain what I was seeing. Standing at the prow I was perhaps three yards above sea level, which I calculated gave me a two-and-half to three mile view of the horizon. I scratched into my logbook: √100 = 10x1.2=12 miles, total of 15 miles

  This put us four leagues off shore in deep water. With each minute of latitude we would travel one nautical mile. All I had to do was to bear and distance from this position to the next. If my landmark was correct, the next distinct mark would fall twelve minutes west, a high rise of mountains and hills.

  I kept my speculations secret, not mentioning the tower to anyone as a landmark. The land became as flat as an anvil and the breeze died. The next log line count fell to five. I calculated that the rise of mountains should appear within the hour. So impatient was I to see it appear, that I stood idly at the rail turning the sand glass over and over in my hand.

  When they did not appear, I scanned the shore through my glass. With relief I spotted them trudging toward us like a dust storm.

  “Well?” demanded Mr. Jacobs, impatiently. “Where are we?”

  “Roughly,” said I, stressing the word,” latitude 19 degrees, longitude 114 east.” I pointed my glass toward the shore. “That should be Kowloon. We are at the mouth of the Pearl River.”

  Mr. Jacobs’ expression froze in with astonishment. Then he broke into a broad smile.

  “You will keep your eyes, Mr. Wren,” said he, clapping me on the back.

  We found a narrow inlet and put to shore for water, and stood at anchor for the night. The water was tranquil with a sharply sloping beach that had a thin ruffle of breaking waves. The men could swim the few yards from the junk and then wade the rest of the way to shore. The land was verdant with soft sandy beaches. Leaving Mr. Jacobs, Lord Douglas, and Wen Xi on board, the remainder of us ventured ashore and quickly discovered a swift fresh water steam that fed the inlet. We floated our empty barrels to shore and returned them nearly full.

  For me, the day was done. I loathed to set foot on the junk again or to assume the burden of piloting her. Still, we had many miles to go before we reached Canton. But to sleep, nestled in a sandy bed, listening to the gentle waves lapping against the shore, would be my sweetest reward.

  Something about the place disturbed me. A fitful wind was whipping the limbs of the trees, showing the pale underbellies of the leaves. There was an odd cacophony of sounds, rustling leaves, the creaking of limbs; birds were soundlessly darting overhead. All seemed to hint a spiritual commotion to the inlet that portended evil. No one else appeared aware of it, however, and I dismissed my apprehension.

  Before choosing a spot to sleep, I reconnoitered the area for any signs of trouble, but found nothing.

  As the evening sun set, I was soon fast asleep. In the middle of the night, like an invisible hand touching my shoulder, the breeze suddenly stopped and all was deathly silent. The frogs, which had been a thundering chorus, had ceased their croaking. I sat up with a start and looked about. The other men were hunkered down, asleep. The silhouette of the junk was where I left it. The moonlight was a bright as a lamp.

  I rose and strolled back to the creek. Jagged shadows were cutting across the water. I could not make out tree root from boulder. I pricked my ears beyond the soft babble of the stream for the slightest stirring. Something faint then flashed in the middle of the brook a hundred yards up stream, moving lightly through shadow and moonlight like a sylph. It was a man. A second phantom followed, then several more. They were carrying weapons and moving with frightful volition right toward me.

  I hastened back to the beach and shook Woodman.

  “We’re being attacked!” I hissed.

  The old marine’s training and experience sprang to life. He was on his feet and off to the others.

  “To the ship, lads!” he ordered. ‘Into the water! Back to the ship! Quickly!”

  As I made for the water, I noticed a small dinghy with men aboard closing on the junk.

  “Mr. Jacobs!” I cried out in my loudest voice. “Awake, man! Mr. Jacobs!”

  The men were running and splashing into the water. Then, like wolves, our attackers rushed shrieking from the bushes and fell upon us with sabers and axes. We had foolishly left our weapons aboard the ship. Mercifully, there was not a loaded musket between them.

  Mr. Hall had stumbled while fleeing and was the first to fall. One of the caterwauling devils felled him with an axe blow to the head. Our assassins were a bedraggled, starving lot, who I took to be deserters from the general’s army. Most were shirtless or hung in rags. One came at me with his saber flashing, bellowing like a banshee. I raked my way into deeper water then dove. When my lungs were near to bursting I came up again, and glancing back, saw him poised waist high into the water, measuring the distance between us.

  The great roar on shore brought Mr. Jacobs, Greyson and Wen Xi onto the deck. Musket shots rang out as Jacobs and Greyson fought off the men approaching in the dinghy.

  We reached the junk and began hoisting ourselves aboard.

  “The muskets!” cried Jacobs when he saw us. “Take hold of a weapon!”

  The extra second of warning had made the difference. The pirates on the shore could not follow with their weapons. Despite our superior numbers now, the men in the dinghy attacked with mad desperation. One fellow, having boldly climbed aboard over the rail, was run through the shoulder by Mr. Woodman’s sword, yet kept pressing his attack, slashing back with his saber. I claimed one of the pistols in the cabin, hastily loaded it with shaking hands, rushed out with the hammer cocked, and shot the first pirate I saw. The ball struck the man’s hand as h
e was halfway over the rail. He fell back into the dinghy, and tumbled into the water.

  The men who had boarded were killed. The remaining few lost heart and shoved off for the shore. Mr. Jacobs gave the order to weigh anchor and set sail.

  The junk swept into the currents. The entire skirmish had lasted only a few minutes, but seemed a day to me. The loss of smiling, cheerful Mr. Hall was keenly felt by everyone. That we left his corpse floating in the spinning tide preyed on our minds. It was as if each of us had left an arm behind.

  The sun rose and the heat of the day brought fresh distraction. We were soon making excellent headway along the river.

  At mid-morning Lord Douglas strolled out on the deck to announce that Mr. Brooks was dead. All of us had expected it, and so had ample time to season our grief. When a man dies, we bury him. This is the simple contract we have with the dead. For Lord Douglas, however, the decision of what to do with Mr. Brooks’ body presented weighty conflict. Mr. Jacobs had a piece of canvas cloth brought up, enough for a burial, but Lord Douglas required him to remove it.

  Chapter 17

  The Heart of Canton

  Canton revealed itself through the humid haze in bits and pieces; a tower here, a ribbon of road, houses with roof tiles made of porcelain. Then the edge of a high wall appeared, along which we sailed. The wall was made of large square stones, perhaps a dozen hands high, then topped by bricks, and intermittently broken by battlements, conceived like stairs, and lofty towers. At a further distance from one to another were massive iron doors, which were spread wide open, allowing for the easy traffic of business but which at a moment’s notice could be closed, sealing the city off like a crypt. Beyond all my expectations, the wall continued along our course and extended far beyond, rising and then vanishing along the landscape only to rise again.

  I glimpsed the pinnacles of large ceremonial arches behind the wall. The main roads were wider than any I had seen in my native country, and formed a sprawling grid, its leafy boulevards lined with residences with large porches, and warehouses. Boats and ships thronged the shoreline. The city was a marvel to behold.

  We entered the mouth of the harbor where two magnificent stone giants, both armed with clubs, stood atop large columns sneering at our approach.

  All but the small foresail gathered, Mr. Hall adroitly guided our ship through the bustling port to an extended fork of the main dock, where we drifted beside a pile and came to a rest.

  Beyond the two massive, razor-toothed giants, I could see behind them a splendid triumphant arch that acted as the portal into the city. It was twice the size of any edifice I had ever seen. It was built on elaborately carved stone bases. Each stone was as tall and wide as the tallest man. On either side were two round wooden pillars as large in circumference as a circus ring, painted in glistening black lacquer. Yet another structure rose on their shoulders, above ten yards high. It was arched on all sides and its intricate timbers were adorned with red and green lacquer. A roof of deep green porcelain tiles crowned it all. On all its sloping corners were the up-thrust heads of dragons, craning toward the blue sky. A large, carved golden medallion hung from chains at the very center of the arch.

  Through this open vein poured the life of the city—clattering wagons and carts, stampeding soldiers, laborers and sailors.

  I did not take notice of their approach, but before we had cinched our lines a group of armed soldiers took places along the length of our ship, all in handsome uniforms and gleaming helmets. An officer stepped forward before any of us could utter a word and swung himself aboard the vessel. Shouting like a mad man, he summoned six of his cohort aboard and directed them to search the ship. The men rudely pushed past, while the officer paced along the deck, tapping the sharp end of his sword against the flat palm of his hand, and demanding, in Chinese, some explanation from Lord Douglas, who was the first to approach him.

  Wen Xi cut the exchange short, however, by grandly striding over and in a high-pitched tone confronting the man. Their conversation was warm and simmered for some minutes. Wen Xi met the officer’s pugnacious cadences with withering scorn. The officer’s face fell and his arrogance suddenly came to heel.

  His men now returned, one by one, and delivered their inspection report. There was a slight commotion in his aspect as one of them pointed to the cabin, where Mr. Brooks lie.

  Wen Xi followed the officer to the boarding ramp, which Mr. Rollins had only just set in place. Bowing low and supinely, the officer plaintively held up his hands as Wen Xi attempted to disembark. Leaving all but two of his men, on stout, bowed legs, the officer made off down the dock at so rapid a clip that the boards sang out beneath his feet. He disappeared through the arch.

  “Foolish man!” exclaimed Wen Xi. “We wait.”

  The heat of the day rose and we all took refuge in the dodging shadows as they crept across the deck. Wen Xi stubbornly sat at the prow with an eye out for the officer’s return. No one, including Lord Douglas, desired a stay in the cool cabin beside the corpse of Mr. Brooks.

  Recalling the reaction of the officer when one of his men pointed to the cabin, my thoughts turned to what Lord Douglas would do with the body. Would a wagon be sent? Where would he be stored? Or would he simply lie in state aboard the ship until a decision could be reached?

  However plainly I viewed his options, Lord Douglas’ own mind was in wheeling turmoil. After a day of grim silence, he took a brooding turn about the deck and returned purposefully to Mr. Jacobs.

  “How long does the voyage take from here to England?” he asked.

  “Months, sir,” replied Jacobs. “No telling when a ship might come.” He read Lord Douglas’ pensive expression. “We could bury him at sea, my lord.”

  Lord Douglas had darkly pondered the thought already.

  “In a river, thousands of miles from home?”

  “We might plant Mr. Brooks here.”

  “In foreign soil? It must be English soil,” his voice trailed vaguely off then tacked back to Mr. Jacobs again. “What do you think he would have wanted?”

  He asked the question lightly, but with an undercurrent of desperation.

  “I cannot know, sir,” replied Jacobs. “I did not know the man well.”

  “In any event, I must have a coffin built,” said Lord Douglas.

  “That would be the first step, Lord Douglas. It would indeed, sir.”

  Lord Douglas turned and glared impatiently down the dock.

  “Where is that officer?” He turned back, sightlessly surveying the harbor. “We’re all penniless for the moment, but once we’re announced…” His voice trailed off. “He’ll be safe here, do you think?”

  “I doubt anyone would disturb him, sir,” answered Jacobs. “Chinese are afraid of dead men. Spirits of the ancestors and all that.”

  “Perhaps one of these soldiers can be left to guard him.”

  “That would be a proper request, I think, my lord.”

  “I simply wish to do what’s right by him.”

  “I believe you will, sir,” responded Jacobs kindly.

  Greyson nodded toward the cabin. “We’ll bolt the door shut.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The heat was oppressive, stirring up a green porridge of humid air. The busy machinery of war continued to nearly sunset, when there was a gradual lull in the activity. It was only then that I observed the jaunty stride of the officer advancing along the dock toward us. He was accompanied by a larger contingent of men and another officer apparently more highly ranked, judging by the splendor of his uniform. The group halted beside our junk and Wen Xi stepped forward and spoke in the same impatient tone she had earlier. The second officer motioned to someone in the group, a gentleman in common attire, who stepped forward obediently and carefully observed Wen Xi, then spoke to her in reverent tones. When he seemed certain who she was, the man scraped a deep bow and chattered to the ranking officer, who proffered his own bow to Wen Xi.

  After a few minutes more of discussion, Wen Xi str
ode over to Greyson, Jacobs and myself.

  “They take you men to shelter,” she said. “All is well. You will be cared for.”

  “Will they leave a man to guard the junk?” asked Greyson.

  Wen Xi translated the request.

  “Yes,” she said. “Soldier will guard boat.”

  A rickshaw was summoned and Wen Xi was swiftly carried away, followed by the contingent of soldiers. With polite smiles and assorted gesticulations, the junior officer bid us follow him into the city.

  With him as an escort, we passed the sharp-toothed guardians and entered the city of Canton. The avenue was wide and paved in stone. Shops and houses lined the street on both sides. Many of the homes were several stories high, with grand, low-hanging balconies and porches at the street level. The place was teeming with people, all of whom stared incredulously at the parade of grimy white men, solemnly following their guide.

  We scurried in and out of innumerable side streets, which were cooled by the shadows of the tall buildings. The city was an unending curiosity of exotic wares and strange sights.

  “Don’t know how we’d pilot back to the ship,” remarked Mr. Jacobs at one point. “Good and lost, I am.”

  “Aye,” added Rollins. “These heathens could murder us and sell the meat.”

  We passed a large, impressive building with soaring turrets at each of its four corners.

  “What is that?” said Woodman, marveling.

  “A mosque,” replied Jacobs. “Seen one in Egypt once, just like it.”

  Finally we approached a modest two-story building. There was a sign above the door, written in Chinese and decorated with blue dragons. The officer entered and we followed him through the doors, past a gaudy curtain, and into a courtyard that was shaded by a splendid cypress tree that must have stood seventy-five feet tall, with a canopy that spread out beyond courtyard. Beneath it, two women and an old man were waiting. The courtyard was bordered by darkened hallways, which led to sleeping quarters. My impression was that it was not a formal lodging but an ancient barracks of some type, for much of the decorations on the open doors were of a military nature.