Tai-Pan (26 page)

“This old tub be low in the water. Leaking, maybe? Or be it the weight of cargo?”

“What’s on your mind, Tyler?”

“Rumors, lad. There was rumors all yester’ morning. Afore we left. Rumors about Ti-sen’s bullion. Did thee hear it?”

“There were dozens of rumors.”

“Yus. But they all sayed that there was a king’s ransom o’ bullion in Canton. I baint thinking about it. Till I seed thee go back. An’ I thort that were very interestin’. After the twenty-thousand-guinea bet. Very interestin’. Then thee gets on a heavy lorcha like a thief in the night, an’ head south by the wrong channel.” Brock stretched, then scratched his beard vigorously. “Old Jin-qua baint about, were he?”

“He’s out of Canton, yes.”

“Old Jin-qua’s yor dog. Leastways,” Brock said with a leer, “he be yor man, eh?”

“Come to the point.”

“There be no rush, lad. No, by God!” He glanced at the prow of his lorcha. “She be light in the nose, baint she?” Brock was alluding to the foot-square iron spike that jutted six feet out from the prow, just below the waterline. Struan had invented the ram many years ago as a simple method for gouging and sinking a ship. Brock and many of the China traders had adopted it.

“Aye. And we’re heavy. But we’re armed well enough.”

“So I seed. Aft cannon and bow cannon, but no swivels.” A taut silence. “Five days an’ thy notes be due. Right?”

“Aye.”

“Be thee ameeting them?”

“In five days you’ll find out.”

“Forty or fifty lacs o’ bullion be many tons o’ silver.”

“I imagine they would.”

“I ask’t Gorth, Now, wot would old Dirk do if he’d some bad joss? Gorth sayed, He’d try to change it. Yus, says I, but how? Borrow, says he. Ah, says I, borrow it is. But where? Then, Dirk lad, I thort of Jin-qua and Ti-sen. Ti-sen be finished, so it be Jin-qua.” He ruminated a moment. “There be two women aboard. I be glad to give ’em passage to Whampoa or Macao. Wheresomever thee says.”

“They’ve passage already.”

“Yus. But this old wreck might sink. I doan like the thort of women drowning when it baint necessary.”

“We will na sink, Tyler.”

Brock stretched again and shouted to his lorcha for a longboat. Then he shook his head sadly. “Well, lad, I just wanted to offer the women passage. An’ thee, of course. This tub feel very unseaworthy. Uncommon unseaworthy.”

“Plenty of pirates in these waters. If any ship comes too close, I’ll use my cannon.”

“That be wise, Dirk. But if in the blackness o’ night I suddenly be seein’ a ship ahead and was taking avoiding action, an’ that ship were so impertinent as to fire a cannon at me, well, lad, thee would do wot I would do. Presume they be pirate and blow her out of the water. Right?”

“If you were still alive after the first shot.”

“Yus. ’Tis a cruel world we be livin’ in. Baint wise to fire cannon.”

The longboat pulled alongside.

“Thank’ee kindly, Dirk. Better fly thy flag while thee has one. Then godrotting mistakes be not happening. Beg pardon for the grapples. See thee in Hong Kong.”

Brock slipped over the side of the lorcha and stood in the longboat. He waved derisively and was rowed smartly away.

“Wat for One-Eye Mass’er wantshee?” Wung asked shakily. The crew was horror-struck by Brock’s lorcha.

“What you think, heya? You doo all same I say, not deaded can,” Struan said curtly. “All sail, plenty quick-quick. Kill see-fire, heya!”

Taking heart, they doused the lanterns and fled before the wind.

When Brock swung aboard his own lorcha, he glared into the darkness. He could not pick Struan’s lorcha out of the many that sailed, ghostlike, south downstream.

“You see her?” he asked Gorth.

“Yes, Da’.”

“I be going below. If thee happen to ram a lorcha, that be bad. Terrible bad.”

“The bullion’s aboard?”

“Bullion, Gorth?” Brock said, with mock surprise. “I doan know wot thee mean.” He lowered his voice. “If thee needs help, call me. But no cannons, mind, not less he fires at us’n. We baint going to pirate him. We’ve plenty of enemies who’d be happy to mark us’s pirates.”

“Sleep well, Da’,” Gorth said.

For three hours Struan wove in and out of the river traffic, backing, then changing course, skirting the sandbanks dangerously, always making certain that there were boats between him and Brock’s lorcha, which dogged his heels relentlessly. Now they were coming out of the south channel looping around the small island, into the main river once more. He knew that there would be more room to maneuver, but that would help Brock more than him.

Once in the south channel, Brock could bear off to windward nicely, then assault him when he was on the lee tack. Struan would have no wind to swing with and would be struck amidships. A direct or a glancing blow with the iron probe would gut him and sink him like a stone. Since his cannon were set solid into the prow and stern, he could not shift them amidships to protect himself. If he had his own crew it would be different; he would heave to until light, certain that his men could use their weapons to thwart any attempt to get close. But he was dubious about the Chinese crew, and about the ancient Chinese muskets which were likely to blow up in your face when you pulled the trigger. And Brock was right too. If he fired first in the darkness, Brock had the right to fire back. One deft broadside would blow them sky-high.

He looked up at the sky for the thousandth time. He desperately needed a sudden storm and rain, or clouds that would hide the moon. But there were no signs of storm or rain or cloud.

He peered aft and saw the lorcha gaining on them. It was a hundred yards astern and reaching to windward, tacking nearer to the wind than they, gaining way.

Struan ransacked his brains for a feasible plan. He knew he could escape easily if he lightened the ship by throwing the bullion overboard. Half a mile ahead the river was going to fork again, around Whampoa Island. If he took the north channel he would be safer, for most of the river traffic used that channel and he might be able to avoid a ram. But then he would never be able to escape long enough to sail the length of Whampoa and then around it to rendezvous with 
China Cloud
 far up the south side. He was forced to use the south channel.

He could see no way out of the trap. Dawn would come in two or three hours, and he would be lost. Somehow he had to escape in darkness and hide, and then slip down to his rendezvous. But how?

In the darkness ahead he could see the river fork, glinting silver, around Whampoa Island. Then he noticed Ah Gip at the gangway. She beckoned to him. Astern, Brock’s lorcha was well away, still bearing up to windward, readying to run before the wind if he took the south channel, or still be to windward of him if he took the north channel.

He pointed at a small pagoda on the south bank, giving the helmsman a bearing. “Savvy?”

“Savvy, Mass’er!”

“Savvy plenty good!” Struan drew his finger across his throat. He hastened below.

May-may was very sick. The stench of fish and the closeness of the cabin and the heeling of the boat had made her almost helpless with nausea. But she still held on to the musket. Struan picked her up and began to carry her on deck.

“No,” May-may said weakly. “I ask for you because of Ah Gip.”

“What about her?”

“I send her forward, secret. To listen to crew.” May-may retched and held on. When her spasm had passed she said, “She heard a man talking to another. They talking about the bullion. I think they all know.”

“Aye,” Struan said. “I’m sure they do.” He patted Ah Gip’s shoulder. “You plenty big pay soon can.”

“Ayee yah,” Ah Gip said. “Wat for pay, heya?”

“Brock is still on our heels?” May-may asked.

“Aye.”

“Maybe lightning bolt will strike him.”

“Aye, maybe. Ah Gip, make chow Missee can! Soup. Savvy? Soup.”

Ah Gip nodded. “Doan soop. Tea-ah gooda!”

“Soup!”

“Tea-ah.”

“Oh, never mind,” Struan said irritably, knowing that it would be tea however many times he said soup.

He carried May-may on deck and set her on the keg of powder. Wung and the helmsman and the crew did not look at her. But Struan knew they were acutely conscious of her, and she added to the tension on the deck. Then he remembered what she had said about a lightning bolt and this triggered a plan. His worry left him and he laughed aloud.

“Wat for ha-ha, heya?” May-may said, breathing the sea air deeply, her stomach beginning to settle.

“Think good way to chop One-Eye Mass’er,” Struan said. “Heya, Wung! You come my.” Struan gave May-may one of his pistols. “Man near, kill, savvy?”

“Savvy, Mass’er!”

Struan motioned Wung to follow him, and went forward. As he walked easily along the deck the Chinese crew moved out of his way. He stopped at the fo’c’sle for a last check to make sure that Brock’s lorcha was well clear and he hurried below, Wung close behind him. The crew’s quarters consisted of a single large cabin the width of the boat, with bunks lining each side. There was a crude fireplace made of bricks, under an open hatch grill. A kettle swung over the wood coals that glowed dully. Bunches of herbs and dried mushrooms and dried and fresh fish and fresh vegetables and a sack of rice were nearby, and large and small earthenware jars.

He took the tops off the jars and sniffed the contents.

“Mass’er want chowa? Can.”

Struan shook his head. The first jar was soya. The next, ginger in syrup. Then ginseng root in vinegar and spices. There were cooking oils, one jar each of peanut oil and corn oil. Struan threw a few drops from both jars on the fire. The corn oil burned longer than the peanut oil.

“Wung, you fetch upside,” he said, pointing to the jar of corn oil.

“Wat for, heya?”

Struan hurried back on deck. The lorcha was nearing the point in the fork where they would have to turn for the north or the south channel. Struan pointed south.

“Wat for longa way, heya?” Wung asked, putting down the jar.

Struan looked at him and Wung backed a little. The helmsman had already swung the tiller over. They headed into the south fork. Brock’s lorcha followed swiftly on the same tack. There were still many boats between the two lorchas and Struan was safe for a while.

“You stay,” he said to Wung. “Heya, cow chillo. You stay. Use boom-boom all same.”

“Savvy, Mass’er,” May-may said. She was feeling much better.

Struan went into the main cabin and collected all the weapons and brought them back to the poop. He selected a musket, the two bows and arrows and a fighting iron, and threw the rest of the weapons overboard.

“Pirate can, no hav got boom-boom,” Wung muttered sullenly.

Struan picked up the fighting iron and swung it aimlessly. It was a linked iron whip, a deadly weapon at close range—three foot-long iron shafts linked together, and at the very end a barbed iron ball. The short, iron haft fitted neatly into the hand and a protective leather thong slipped over the wrist.

“Pirate come, plenty dead-dead hav got,” Struan said harshly.

Wung pointed furiously at Brock’s lorcha. “Him no stop can, heya?” He pointed at the nearest shore. “There. We run shore—we safe!”

“Ayee yah!” Struan turned his back contemptuously. He sat on the deck, the thong of the fighting iron attached to his wrist. The frightened crew watched, astonished, as Struan ripped the sleeve off his padded coolie jacket and tore it into strips and soaked the strips in the oil. He took one of the strips and carefully bound it around the head of an iron-tipped arrow. They backed away from him as he fitted the arrow into the bow, sighted along the deck at the mast and let fly. The arrow missed the mast, but buried itself in the fo’c’sle teak door. He pulled the arrow out with difficulty.

He went back and unbound the strip of padding and dunked it into the oil. Next he carefully sprinkled it with gunpowder, rebound it around the arrowhead and wrapped a second strip around the outside.

“Hola!” the stern lookout shouted. Brock’s lorcha was gaining on them ominously.

Struan took the helm and conned the ship for a while. He slipped dangerously behind a ponderous junk and changed direction adroitly, so that when he was clear he was scudding on the opposite tack. Brock’s lorcha turned quickly to intercept, but had to detour to avoid a convoy of junks heading north. Struan gave the helm to one of the crew and finished four arrows. Wung could contain himself no longer. “Heya, Mass’er, wat can?”

“Get see-fire, heya?”

Muttering obscenities, Wung left and came back with a lantern. “See-fire!”

Struan pantomimed dipping the arrow in the lantern flame and shooting the blazing shaft at the mainsail of Brock’s lorcha.

“Plenty fire, heya? They stop, we go, heya?”

Wung’s mouth dropped open. Then he burst into laughter. When he could talk he explained to the crew and they beamed at Struan. “Youa plenty—plenty Tai-Pan. Ayeeeee yah!” Wung said.

“Plenty fantastical youa,” May-may said, joining in the laughter. “Jig-jig One-Eye Mass’er plenty!”

“Hola!” the lookout called.

Brock’s lorcha had negotiated the detour and was gaining on them. Struan took the tiller and began weaving and twisting through the traffic deeper and deeper into the south channel. Brock’s lorcha closed in inexorably, always staying to windward. Struan knew that Brock was waiting for the traffic to clear before making his fatal stab. Struan was slightly more confident now. If the arrow hits the sail, he told himself, and if it does na go through, and if it stays alight while in flight and if the mains’l is dry enough to catch fire, and if they’ll only wait for four miles before they make the first pass, and if my joss is good, then I can lose them. “A pox on Brock!” he said.

The river traffic was thinning appreciably. Struan moved the tiller and beat to windward to get as near to the south side of the river as possible so that, when he turned again, the wind would be abaft the beam and he could run before it.

The south side of the river was shoal-ridden and hazardous. Tacking so far to windward left Struan dangerously open. Brock’s lorcha was waiting to pounce. But Struan wanted him to attack now. It was time. He long ago had learned a basic law of survival: Bring your enemy to battle only on your terms, never on his.