Mean Sun (20 page)

“We must do this quickly,” Greyson muttered to no one.

He felt into the wound with his finger, withdrew it in an instant, and then pressed the gaping hole wider with the larger of the two blades; he sent the second knife deeper. Mr. Brooks thrashed suddenly and growled like a trapped animal. Within a moment, and with concentrated effort, Greyson worked the bloody lead prize to the surface and flipped it away with the edge of his blade where it rolled against my boot.

With Woodman’s help, the two men pinched the wound again with their fingers and Greyson sewed it closed with several jagged stitches. Mr. Brooks was unconscious. His dressing was replaced and his tunic draped lightly over his shoulders.

“He’s still alive, my lord,” remarked Woodman, on his hands and knees, peering into Mr. Brooks’ eyes. “A fair job, I’d say.”

Mr. Brooks was transported back into the cabin and settled on his bed once again, with Lord Greyson sitting beside him.

Chapter 16

Finding the Pearl

Though no one challenged my course, I sensed great anxiety among my fellows each time I tossed the log line or fixed on the sun. The helmsmen’s compass readings I took by the hour, noted in the traverse board then later logged. The weight of responsibility led me to keep to the tiny closet, pouring over my numbers, tables and charts, away from all scrutiny. The men began to look for omens; to this end, late that afternoon the carcass of a gull was seen floating by and excited woeful predictions.

“No one aboard kilt it,” Mr. Jacobs declared. “It’s been dead for days. All the ill luck is bled out of it.”

There was some relief when at dusk the stars seemed at their appointed places in the sky, confirming our latitude. Longitude was another matter, for without coastal marks it was all a great muddle. My plan was to continue to west in blue water, then climb north to the Pearl River’s latitude, west again, a great roundabout that would add a full day to our voyage. I prayed the brilliant skies would hold and that the sea remained calm, and that my fragile estimate of longitude was within two hundred miles of true. All the joy that one experiences in a starlit night was lost to me. Each twinkle was a coin in my purse that I feared might slip out through my clumsy stitching.

Just before dark on the third day we spied two ships of the line pressing north by northeast. Mr. Hall speculated that they were Dutch, given their homely profiles. They took no note of us, or perhaps they did; out of caution, we tacked sharply westward for a time to avoid being taken as a prize. This simple maneuver only added to my distress as a pilot, for there I was, pitching the log line and consulting the pole star and trying anew to fix our position.

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 he 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