Mandarin-Gold (16 page)

He called for his chief counsellor.

'The Imperial wish,' he said briefly, 'is that Lin be brought to Us with all speed. Obey! Instantly obey!'

Mackereth leaned on
-
the rail and watched the rowing boat return.

'What has happened to Gunn? He isn't in the boat,' he called to Fernandes, but Fernandes was busy in the wheel-house.

'I didn't even know he was going ashore,' he said; his gut was hurting him again, and so was the knowledge that he had known Gunn was to be put ashore, and had done nothing to oppose the plan.

Mackereth hurried into Crutchley's cabin. Crutchley lay on his bunk, shoes kicked off, trousers loosened at the belt, his shirt open at the neck. He was sweating; the cabin smelled sour with the stench of his unwashed body. A glass of rum, brown as. creosote, was by his hand. He looked, thought Mackereth with distaste, like a long bloated pig.

'Don't be ridiculous,' replied Mackereth. 'We can't leave him ashore, on his own, in what is almost certainly a hostile place. You're drunk, man.' Crutchley seized Mackereth by the cravat.

'Don't call me
man.
And I'm
never
drunk,' he said between clenched teeth. 'If I didn't need you as an interpreter I'd have you flogged and put in irons.'

'Get your foul hands off me,' shouted Mackereth, backing away. Crutchley lowered his huge hands.

'When we return to Macao I'll tell Dr Jardine of this disgusting behaviour,' Mackereth went on. 'I
de
mand
that a boat goes back to pick up the doctor.'

'You can demand what you like. But you'll get nothing. He'll be quite safe there.'

'How do you mean,
quite safe?
He doesn't know anybody, he doesn't speak a word of the lingo. They'll cut him to pieces instantly as a Barbarian who has landed without permission.'

'You only own a share of this company. Dr Jardine and the Parsee own the rest. We'll see what
they
say.'

‘I’ll tell you what they'll say,' said Crutchley bending down to Mackereth, so that the priest could smell his foul, rum-heavy breath, like a whiff from a distillery. 'At least I know what the Parsee'll say. For he
told
me to leave him there. Or, rather, he
asked
me. No-one gives me orders. It's part of his plan.'

'What plan?'

'There are more plans in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in your philosophy, Mackereth. I am not beholden to answer your questions. Suffice it that I am sure Dr Gunn will be taken care of.'

As Crutchley said the words, a sudden thought of how Gunn would be taken care of struck an icy shaft of fear at his heart. He could imagine the cudgelling by bamboo clubs, then the sharp slivers of bamboo being pressed into Gunn's testicles like darts, until he was delirious with pain and fear. Then his tormentors would bind his neck with iron chains, and slowly and ceremoniously tighten them until Gunn's eyes bulged in his head like giant onions, and his face went black. Then, mercifully, he would die on the hot sand, maybe even within sight of the clipper sailing away.

How would
he
fare in such a situation? Could he possibly survive? That was a terrible thought, and he hated this snivelling fool Mackereth for making him think it.

'Get out of my cabin!' he shouted. 'Go back to your little bum boys! And if I catch you up the arse of anyone in this ship, I'll have you flogged with a hundred -lashes. You're no more a man of God than I am. But then I don't pretend to be. You're not even a
man. .
You're a thing, a half-man! A hermaphrodite, a pederast!'

'Never have I been spoken to in my life like this,' said Mackereth, with surprising dignity. 'I will remember every syllable of our conversation. I will communicate much of it to Captain Fernandes now, so if you imagine you can get rid of me in the way you appear to have got rid of Dr Gunn, you are mistaken. Good day to you, Mr Crutchley.'

Mackereth walked out, along the creaking deck, to his own cabin, and sat down on the bunk, head in his hands. In this confounded heat, and being confined in this wretched vessel with this animal Crutchley, he felt trapped and terrified. He hated himself for being in this situation, where his only consolations were whisky and the Lord. How differently, how deferentially had he been treated when he was rich!

He poured himself some whisky, and the neck of the bottle rattled on the edge of the glass. This vile country, this terrible trade. Yet he needed the money, for how could he spread the word of God without money?

The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom, Psalm one hundred and eleven, verse ten. The love of money is the root of all evil, the first Epistle of Paul to Timothy, chapter six, verse ten.

Mackereth heard the rattle of the anchor chains corning up and the shouts of officers and crew as the sails were unfurled, and he stood up and saw the shore pivot through, the circle of his porthole. They were sailing away, as Crutchley had said they would. And they had left one of their number behind to almost, certain death. Overcome by whisky and hatred at his own weakness, Mackereth dropped on his knees beside his bunk.

'O, God,' he prayed, 'who art the author of all impulses of good, who fighteth the evil that is in every man's heart, I beg and beseech you to look down in mercy on thy subject, Robert Gunn, wherever he is.

'Guard him, I pray you, with your angel hosts. Succour him and bring him back safely. I ask this in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, for Whom all things are possible, to Whom all things are known. Amen.'

Mackereth stood up, finished the glass, and looked out of the porthole. The clipper had turned completely now. There was nothing but the sea; they were heading north. He sat down on the bunk, put his head in his hands again, and wept.

Gunn stopped running and stood, back against a tree, listening for any pursuers. But he could hear nothing except the harmless cackling of strange birds, the creak of branches, the distant chatter of monkeys.

So far as he knew, the shore was behind him, but since he could not see the sun, he was not certain. Near his feet he saw a sudden silver glitter of scales; a serpent slid silently over the moss.

Why hadn't the Lascars waited for him? And what had happened to the mandarin's secretary? Unease spread through him. He put a hand in his pocket and took out the sheet of paper Crutchley had given him. It was covered in what seemed to be crude Chinese characters, but they meant nothing to him; they could be true or false. He opened the pouch and shook out the coins into his palm. They were all copper pennies.

So he had been sent on a fool's errand. The mandarin's servant had not dropped his purse. Crutchley had simply wanted rid of Gunn. But why?

He put the pouch and the paper back in his pocket, and his fingers touched another piece of paper: the Parsee's cheque.

Of course. The Parsee had given him a cheque, but owning a share in the
Hesperides,
was it not possible that he had told Crutchley to be rid of Gunn as soon as he could safely do so? An uncashed cheque was no debit on any account. By sending Gunn ashore alone on a hostile coast, the Parsee was not only saving his money, he was guaranteeing Gunn's silence.

He had been tricked by someone he had trusted, by someone he had been naive enough to imagine would keep his word. He could hear the Parsee's voice again.
I
am a man of my word and my family's honour . . . broken promises mean broken friendships . . .'

Well, he would confound them all: he would survive, and he would return — and cash the Parsee's cheque. Anger had ousted unease. He would show himself a match for these rogues. Then, if necessary, he would seek out Dr Jardine and tell him, as one medical man to another, how he had been tricked.

For he had learned one thing; he would never- be tricked again.

Gunn looked around the jungle, steamy as a hothouse. Trunks entwined with each other; tendrils hung down from branches; plump, pale-green leaves, some sharp-edged like the blades of strange swords, others pulpy as human flesh, kept out air and light. He began to be aware of a twittering of insects, the whine of mosquitoes, the croak and tuck-too of frogs. These were the sounds of evening; soon it would be night.

He felt surrounded by dangers he did not know and would never recognize. But most dangerous of all were the Chinese predators who might still be stalking him. He must find his way back to the coast and travel along the edge of the sea. Then, if he walked far enough, surely he would reach some village where he could bluff a fisherman with his bag of copper coins into taking him to Macao? But first he had to find his bearings.

He took out his pocket-knife and carved a crude cross on an overhanging branch. He had read that people in jungles often walked in circles, so at least he would know where he had been, even if he wasn't sure where he was going:

Then he took off his hat, wiped the sweat from his forehead and hair and set out through the easiest way between the trees. He would walk until darkness and then hole up somewhere, and after a few hours' sleep, when the moon rose, he would start walking again. It would be safer to move by night.

Gunn set off briskly enough, but the humidity and heat were greater than he had realized. Within minutes, he was soaking with sweat. His collar rasped against his neck, and his tongue swelled like a dried sponge. He sat down against the trunk of a tree, but almost instantly was on his feet. He had sat upon a nest of red ants, and they were burrowing through his. trousers, crawling up above his socks, biting his flesh.

He beat his body with his hands to try to kill them, and started off again, while they bored through the sweaty folds of skin about his buttocks.

He looked at his watch. He must have spent longer resting than he had realized. The hands now pointed to six-thirty. All the time, as he walked, he seemed to be passing the same trees. The only signs of life were bright-plumaged birds that took off unexpectedly in almost vertical flight. Now and then, monkeys swung above his head, gibbering and throwing down nut kernels at him.

Seven o'clock. Gunn had no idea now in which direction he was heading. The tops of the trees were dark and he could only see the trunks as deeper shadows. He felt panic grow like another tree within him. He was afraid to stop, and yet what progress was he making? He glanced at his watch again. Still seven o'clock. It had stopped. Either his sweat had seeped into the case, or he had banged it somewhere, blundering into a tree-trunk.

He came to a small clearing. The ground was soft and marshy, with a putrid smell of decay. He sat down, back against a tree, then stretched out at its base. He must have slept, for he was suddenly wide awake and surprisingly cold. His sweat was clammy and chill, and his feet had swelled painfully in his boots. Through the first gap he had seen between the tree tops, a few stars glittered.

His face and hands were puffy and stiff with insect bites, but he lay still, not moving, wondering why he had awakened, every nerve tense as a violin string.

Something whistled above his head and twanged into the tree trunk four or five feet above him. Against the dim sky, he could see an arrow quivering; then a second, and a third. Each one came a little lower, a little nearer to him. Some archer was shooting at him; taking his time, amusing himself.

Gunn rolled to one side, stood up and began to run. He took three paces and fell flat on his face.

A rope, or length of jungle creeper, had been tied between two trees about a foot from the ground, and he had not seen it. Painfully, he dragged himself up. He heard chattering behind the trees, but he still could not see anyone. The Chinese must have trailed him like a wild animal from the beach, keeping him in sight all the time. Now they had come in for the kill.

Gunn paused, irresolute, his body one huge bruise, his muscles aching. Then, with a great roar, part rage, part fear, he started to run, .crashing through the undergrowth like a beast. Thorns plucked at him and scratched his face. He thought he heard others running, too, but whether after him or away, he could not be sure. He had no idea where he was going; he just had to escape or die.

He blundered on, and gradually the forest grew lighter. Dawn was coming up. The sun was filtering through the trees, and now he could see their trunks, grey and ghostly, and the hanging tendrils of creeper.' His run slowed to a walk. He felt terribly tired. Breath rattled like stones in his throat; hammers beat in his head, and when he shut his eyes, all he could see was a dim redness. His mouth was dry as powdered sand.

He stumbled on for a few more paces and then paused, resting against the branch of a tree over which he could throw his arms. Then he straightened up and tried to walk. And all the while, on either side, soundless feet were following him. Unseen eyes watched him between thick leaves and twisted tree trunks. And, finally, when Gunn could walk no more, when he collapsed, sobbing for air, every breath burning his throat like the blast from a furnace door, when the red ants scurried busily over his hands and his face and his sweaty neck, and he lacked even the strength to brush them away, these hidden watchers moved in on him.