The Mark of the Golden Dragon (8 page)

"
Nanda! Dara! Chankrisna!
"

At his call, the three young men from last night's conspiracy come pounding down the sand, huge grins on their triumphant faces.

Arun barks out the command and the yellow boat is shoved into the water.

"Hop in, Ravi!" I shout, as the boat floats in the gentle surf. I throw my leg over the gunwale.

Ravi struggles aboard and I find an oar and stick it in the water to pole us backward.

"There's another paddle there! Take it! Help me push us out!"

We continue to push until I get enough water under us to raise the sail. We have a nice alongshore breeze and that is good. I see that there is a centerboard and I shove it down. Then I grab the main haul and pull, and the sail goes up easily and fills with wind. I put the rudder down and throw over the tiller. We heel over, and we are off and away!

As we go, I wave at those who are gathered on the shore and they wave back. Then I grab Ravi and ecstatically plant kisses all over his face and exclaim, "Oh, Ravi, my brave, brave,
brave
little garden slug, we are away!"

Glory!

Mr. John Higgins
Onboard the
Nancy B. Alsop
Off the Coast of Siam
December 25, 1807

Mr. Ezra Pickering
Union Street
Boston, Massachusetts, USA

My Dear Mr. Pickering,

It is with regret that I must report the apparent loss of our dear friend Miss Jacky Faber, she being swept overboard off the
Lorelei Lee
during a violent storm on the South China Sea and lost. All here mourn her passing with heavy hearts.

I beg you to break this sad news as gently as you can to Miss Trevelyne and to Miss Faber's other friends at the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls. I know it will be a hard task and I do not envy you the role of bearer of extremely bad news, but I see no other way. I am truly sorry.

However, knowing Miss Faber as we did, I believe you will agree with me that she would wish that the Corporation bearing her name to continue, since so many people now depend on Faber Shipping Worldwide for their livelihood. That being the case, please persist in your efforts to carefully manage the assets of that Corporation. It is in that spirit that I herewith bring you up to date on events here in the Bay of Bengal.

I have attached to this letter a separate account of the events—various mutinies, naval engagements, and much travail, which led to our being at this spot on the globe at this particular time—and so will not include them in the contents of this letter.

Our fleet, which was comprised of the
Lorelei Lee,
commanded by Miss Faber; the
Cerberus,
Mr. James Fletcher commanding; and HMS
Dart,
captained by Lieutenant Joseph Jared, Royal Navy, left Australia in the month of November and was proceeding north when it encountered a typhoon of horrific dimensions. I have not words to describe the awesome power of that maelstrom. Suffice it to say that it was powerful enough to tear off the foremast of the
Lorelei Lee
and, taking with it, our own dear Miss Faber.

After that fateful storm, we repaired damage as best we could and commenced a thorough search for Miss Faber, or her remains, up and down the Strait of Malacca, but we could find nothing, not a single remnant—no bones, no body, nothing. We took on translators of the various languages of the area and put into many ports inquiring as to her possible whereabouts but learned nothing. Eventually, after several weeks of fruitless search, we were forced to face the awful truth, and give up and push on.

We met the
Nancy B. Alsop
at the top of the Straits of Malacca yesterday. Yes, it is a very big world and a very large ocean, but the Straits of Malacca are narrow, and by good fortune we did manage to meet.

You will of course recall, Mr. Pickering, that I had sent a letter to Captain Liam Delaney from the port of Gibraltar some months ago, relating to him the fact that both Miss Faber and his daughter Mairead Delaney McConnaughey had been condemned to servitude in the penal colony at New South Wales and were being transported there in the
Lorelei Lee,
newly requisitioned by the East India Company, and if it was his wish, he was authorized to go to Boston and take command of the schooner
Nancy B. Alsop
to attempt a rescue. I sent a letter to you at that time, informing you of my actions in that regard. Since he appeared yesterday on the horizon in command of the
Nancy B.,
it was apparent to me that he took us up on our offer.

The joy of the reunion with former shipmates was, of course, dashed by the news of Miss Faber's demise.

As for others of Miss Faber's acquaintance, I regret to say that Mr. James Emerson Fletcher grows ever more melancholy by the day, if that is possible. He is sustained only by his fierce and all-consuming desire for revenge on those who brought Miss Faber to that fatal crossroads of her destiny. I see him standing at the rail of his ship, standing there for hours, looking out across the sea.

Others try to bring him cheer, but he does not accept it, poor man. He says only, "I live on my hatred and my rage. It eats at me, but it also sustains me. I will have my vengeance. Count on it."

Although he continues to be a competent master and commander of his ship, I do fear for the condition of his mind. In fact, I fear for his very sanity.

Lieutenant Joseph Jared grew up at sea and therefore, like others of his fatalistic seagoing ilk, is philosophical concerning life and death, since death is always very close and very present when on the unpredictable and wasteful ocean. Looking out over the waves at the scudding clouds on the horizon, he says, "We loved her, and in our hearts and our minds and our memories she will never grow any older, for whatever consolation that gives those of us left here behind. Her life was short, but she lived it as she wanted and she certainly packed a lot in to the short time she had. Jacky was given nine lives and I guess she finally used them all up. Rest in peace, Puss."

The fleet departed at dawn this morning on a northerly course, heading, for the most part, back to England. The
Lorelei Lee,
with her Irish crew, will part company with the rest at the bottom tip of Africa, and at that time will set her course for Boston to rejoin Faber Shipping Worldwide yet again.

On the
Nancy B. Alsop,
we raised anchor and headed south.

Yes, Captain Delaney has elected to make one more trip down the Straits of Malacca to search for Miss Faber, or her remains, saying, "She should have a proper burial, at least. We owe her that much. If she can be found, we will find her—and if she has to be buried on a heathen shore, then so be it. No sailor wants to be buried at sea."

He felt that the
Nancy B.,
being much smaller than the other ships in Miss Faber's former fleet, would be able to sail closer to the shore and to nip into smaller coves and inlets that would have proved dangerous to the larger ships, and so possibly gain better information as to Miss Faber's sad end and the disposition of her remains.

I heartily concurred in that and have elected to go with him. Although there is virtually no chance that she has survived, still a faint glimmer of hope remains.

No music is heard on the now somber decks of the
Nancy B.

I grieve with you and all of Miss Faber's friends, and I am Yr most Obedient and etc.

John Higgins

And so the
Eastern Star
sails up into the Bay of Bengal, with a sturdy crew of two.

Back at sea, girl, and in your own boat. Ahhh, yes!

I named my new sailing skiff the
Eastern Star
in keeping with her sister boats back in Boston, the
Morning Star
and the
Evening Star.
She is about sixteen feet long, well-found, and a good little sailor, and she's the newest addition to the fleet of Faber Shipping Worldwide. I shall have to write to Ezra Pickering and have her added to the holdings of that Corporation.

I do like the deep yellow color of her hull and the maroon of her single sail, and I love the sun on my face and the sound of the sea slipping by under the
Stars
bottom.

I was further delighted, upon commandeering this craft, to discover many fish lines and hooks stashed under the gunwales. Some jugs of water, to boot—nothing was too good for the badmash. And two of those lovely cast nets, too! Joy!

I have taught Ravi the rudiments of sailing, and he seems to enjoy it—his hand on the mainsheet, his eye on the tautness of the sail. As I lie back and let Ravi guide us on ever northward, I hook an ankle over the port gunwale and wonder how Jaimy and Jared are getting along with me being out of the way. Probably pretty good, I'll wager... 'Course they got some things to resolve in the way of duty and male honor and all, but I do hope they'll work it out, I do. Maybe it'll be easier without my troublesome presence. Who knows? Certainly not me.

"Memsahib! Something on line!"

I jerk myself back into my present circumstances.

One of the fish lines is jerking violently, so I leap over to grab it and begin hauling it in. Whatever is on the other end is fighting mightily, but he shall not prevail. Oh, no you shan't, fishy, for Jacky Faber is too hungry for that!

After we had first taken the boat, we had sailed maybe fifteen miles up the coast. Then, as evening was about to fall, we headed into a nice little cove to dig some more clams. Both of us are heartily sick of them and think longingly of the simple meal we had at Arun's humble home, but we must eat something. We did not finish all of them but instead wrapped a goodly number in wet seaweed so as to have something with which to bait our hooks when we sailed away on the morrow. I climbed for more coconuts, as well, and we stashed some extra ones in the boat for later use. We also took the time to prepare the
Star
for the night, stretching our canvas across the lowered boom of the sail, making a very acceptable tent within the boat's hull.

We then took our sturdy little craft out into the gentle surf and threw out the anchor—yes, the badmash had one aboard, bless him. Hey, maybe the sod has earned some karma points, who knows? And then, as full night was upon us, Ravi and I, wrapped in each other's arms and lying on the hard hull of the
Eastern Star,
were rocked gently to sleep.

I yank the thrashing fish into the boat and, by God, it's a good one! About eighteen inches long, all blue and silver stripes and flashing teeth. I pick up a club that—given the amount of dried fish scales that cling to it—has been put to this use many times before, and deliver the fish a hearty
thwhack
on his head, which stops his thrashing and sends him off to wherever fishies go when they leave their water world.

"Poor fishy soul now with Brahma," whispers Ravi, appalled once again by the slaughter.

As the fish's movements subside, I whip out my shiv and open up his belly and spill out his guts.

"Ha! Now that's a good-looking liver," I crow, reaching into the mess and pulling out the bright red organ. I slap it down on the thwart and slice it neatly in half. I choose a piece and hold it over my mouth as if it is a crimson oyster and then let it slip down my throat.
Ummm...

"Your turn, Ravi, do it now," I order. "It's good for you, and the
Eastern Star
must have a fit First Mate."

"To eat insides of poor creature that still quivers." Ravi shudders, shaking his head. "Hopes for garden slug in next life fading fast ... Maybe spider ... or lowly ant..." I hold the morsel over his open mouth and then drop it. He gags, but he chews and gets it down. Amazing what a little hunger will do for deciding what one will, or will not, eat.

I fillet the fish and lay pieces of the flesh on the gunwale to dry and to cook there in the fierce rays of the sun. We shall eat them later, when they turn white, and I'll wager they will be quite delicious ... A dash of pepper and lemon would be nice, but dipped in the sea for salt, they will be just fine, and hey, this ain't exactly Buckingham Palace, now, is it?

Neptune smiles upon us and we have great good luck in fishing this day, bagging five more of the silver darlings. I unravel a length of my rope and use a strand to thread through the gills of each new arrival and tie the whole stringer over the side so that the fish will stay alive till we go to market.

We have further luck when I put the carcass of the first fish on an especially long, heavy hook and heave it over the side. Late in the afternoon, that line goes rigid and I swear the side of the
Star
heels over under the pressure of whatever is on the other end of that line. After much struggle, the blunt head of a shark appears alongside, the hook gleaming in his toothy mouth.

"Look, lad, in that cove there—it's another small town. Let's head in there and see if we can sell our catch."

Ravi puts over the tiller, I tighten the sail, and we head in, the unfortunate shark trailing meekly behind.