The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë (47 page)

As to events that transpired farther afield, I learned them from another source. Into my tale I insert pages from a letter written by Branwell to Francis Grundy, an engineer he had met while working for the Leeds and Manchester Railway, a letter he never sent.

A
RHYTHMIC CREAKING NOISE PIERCED THE VEIL OF SLEEP THAT enshrouded me. I became aware of the hard surface upon which I lay, a rocking motion, and a sensation of nausea. My head ached; my tongue felt furry inside my parched mouth. Rough, thick fabric covered my body, which was stiff and sore. I heard splashing noises. Above me was the night sky, filled with stars that wheeled, like lanterns on a carousel, around a full moon. A cold, reviving breeze swept my face; I inhaled the scent of the ocean. My memory was a blank. More puzzled than afraid, I sat up, and the world rocked; my stomach slid to and fro inside me. I saw that I was in a boat—a small, open craft. A man sat not far from me, rowing. His oars splashed in the ocean, which spread all around us, its black waves shimmering with reflections from the moon and stars. For one frightful moment I imagined that I had died and that the man was Charon, ferrying me along the River Styx. Then I recognized him. It was Nick, the mute servant of Kuan.

“Good evening, Miss Brontë,” said Hitchman’s voice.

I turned and saw him seated behind me in the boat. Eerie lights from the sea played across his face, which wore its familiar, sardonic smile.

Terror surged within me. “Where are the children?”

“Right next to you,” Hitchman said.

Now I became conscious of warm, solid weight pressed against me. Vicky and Bertie lay under the blanket that covered us. Their delicate faces were pale in the moonlight. Vicky’s eyelids fluttered; Bertie whimpered. I felt them stirring.

“How long have I been asleep?” I said, trying to speak calmly and hide my fear lest it rouse his suspicion.

“Long enough,” came the reply.

My heart plunged, for I calculated that I must have slept through an entire day. By now the Queen must have discovered that the children and I were gone, and Mr. Slade must have begun a search, but still no one had rescued us.

“Where are we?” I said.

“On the North Sea,” Hitchman said.

I looked backward as Nick rowed and our boat cut across the water. Lights twinkled on a distant shoreline. My hope that Mr. Slade would come for me waned further.

“Where are we going?” I said.

“To meet Kuan.”

Ahead loomed the dark form of a steamship floating at anchor. I deduced it to be the vessel that Kuan had stolen from the opium traders and that had brought him to England. Lanterns burned on its deck. Skeletal masts supported weather-beaten sails on rigging that was like the web of a giant spider. The huge, curved wheel-houses bulged with latent power. The funnel rose tall enough to impale the heavens. Nick brought our boat alongside the ship. A ladder was mounted on its hull.

“Up you go, Miss Brontë,” Hitchman ordered.

Still weak and sick from the laudanum, and trembling with fright, I climbed the ladder. The ship’s hull was scarred from long journeys, infested with barnacles, algae, and wormholes. Two Chinese sailors hauled me aboard. Their narrow, hostile eyes stared at me; they wore pistols and daggers at their waists. More Chinamen loitered around the deck. I felt as though I’d stepped onto foreign territory. I despaired, knowing that Mr. Slade would never find me there.

Hitchman, Nick, and the sailors brought Vicky and Bertie and the dinghy onto the ship. Hitchman said, “Come, Miss Brontë, I’ll show you where you’ll live during our voyage to China.”

China! I felt a stab of horror. I never imagined events would reach this point. Hitchman and Nick carried the children down a flight of stairs below deck. My responsibility towards Vicky and Bertie outweighed my fears for myself: Whatever happened, I could not allow harm to come to them. I followed them into a narrow passage that smelled of coal smoke, tar, and fish as well as those odors produced by humans living in close, unsanitary quarters. We entered a tiny chamber that had four bunks mounted on the walls, a washstand, and a porthole window.

“See to the children,” Hitchman said as he and Nick laid them on the two lower bunks. By now they were restless and yawning. “Make sure they behave themselves. Nick will bring you food and water. You’ll find everything else you need in the cupboards under the bunks.”

The men departed. I unwrapped Vicky and Bertie. They had wet themselves while asleep, and their nightclothes were soaked. In the cupboards I found children’s garments, and some that would fit me. Those were of much better quality than I usually wore. Kuan had provided well for us. This dismayed rather than pleased me: It seemed the final confirmation that I would indeed be going on this journey. Nick brought bread, cheese, cold meat, and a water jug. I cleaned the children and dressed them.

“Miss Brontë,” Vicky murmured. “Where are we?”

I felt a terrible pity for her, and a guilt even more terrible. “On a ship.”

“What are we doing here?” Vicky sat up, rubbing her eyes. “I don’t feel good. Where are we going?”

I hadn’t the heart to tell her.

“Where’s Mama?” Bertie demanded. I tried to put shoes on him, but he kicked at me. “Go away! I want Mama!”

“I’m sorry, but your mama isn’t here.” Wondering how in the world I would manage him, I resorted to an outright lie: “Be a good boy, and you’ll see her soon.”

Bertie began to cry and wail, “Mama! Papa!”

When I tried to soothe him, he pushed me away and wailed louder. Vicky sat silent on her bunk, prim as ever; but her chin trembled.

“You must be hungry and thirsty,” I said in an attempt to distract the children from their woe.

Vicky drank some water, but she refused the food. “No thank you, Miss Brontë,” she said politely. “I don’t think I can eat.”

Bertie said, “I’m going to find Mama,” and scrambled out the door.

I followed, calling, “Bertie! Come back here at once!”

He ran down the passage, but Nick stood blocking the stairs. Nick picked up Bertie, who shrieked and fought, carried him into our chamber, and dumped him on the bunk. Bertie lay there squalling. Nick gave me a look that warned me to keep Bertie inside, then left. The rolling of the ship churned my stomach. I wanted to vomit up my sickness and terror, to weep with despair. But I had to hold myself together for the sake of the children. It was up to me to save them from Kuan. I sat beside Vicky and took her cold little hand in mine.

“Can you keep a secret?” I whispered.

She gave me a somber, questioning look. Then she nodded.

“Some bad men have kidnapped us,” I whispered. “I promise I’ll take you and Bertie back to your mama and papa.” Somehow, God willing, I would. “But I need you to promise to help me. Can you?”

I couldn’t explain to a child the terrible specifics of what might transpire, but Vicky seemed to understand at once that we were in danger and must band together. She said, “Yes, Miss Brontë. What do you want me to do?”