Tai-Pan (27 page)

“Heya, May-may, go downside!”

“Watchee my. Can, never mind.”

Struan picked up the second musket and gave it to Ah Gip. “Go downside, now!”

Both women went below.

“Wung-ah, get see-fire two.”

Wung brought a second lantern and Struan lit them both. He put the arrows ready and the two bows. Now we’re committed, he told himself.

Brock’s lorcha was two hundred yards away to windward. Gradually the river traffic disappeared. The two ships were alone. Instantly Brock’s lorcha heeled over and hurled at him. Struan’s crew scattered and ran to the far gunnel. They hung on to the rigging and prepared to jump overboard. Only Wung remained with Struan on the poop.

Struan could see Gorth clearly now, conning the lorcha, his crew at action stations. He searched the deck for Brock but could not see him and wondered what devilment he was up to. When the lorchas were fifty yards apart, Struan swung the tiller over and lumbered before the wind, shoving his stern at Gorth. Gorth was gaining rapidly, staying to windward, and Struan knew that Gorth was much too smart to make the pass at his lee quarter. He motioned to Wung to take the tiller and hold the course. He readied the bow and arrows and ducked under the gunnel. He could see the masts of the lorcha bearing down on him swiftly. He stuck an arrowhead into the lantern’s flame. The oil-soaked padding flared immediately, and he stood up and aimed. The lorcha was thirty yards away. The arrow traveled in a flaming arc amid warning shouts and hit the mainsail squarely. But the force of impact extinguished the flame.

Gorth shouted to his crew and still bore down as a second arrow came at him. This one smashed into the mainsail, and held, showering sparks on the deck. The gunpowder that was inside the padding caught and exploded in flames. Involuntarily Gorth shoved the helm over and the boat peeled away, shuddering under the violence of the turn.

Struan had a third arrow ready, and as the lorcha went scudding past he fired it and saw it smash into the huge foresail. Flames began to lick the canvas. He gleefully swung the tiller over and bore away to windward and saw Brock charge up from belowdecks and shove Gorth aside, grab the tiller, and veer the boat around. Then Brock jerked the helm hard over and flung the boat at Struan’s starboard amidships, cutting off his escape.

Struan had anticipated Brock’s move, but his lorcha did not respond to the rudder and he knew that he was finished. He lit the last arrow and waited, his weight pressed against the tiller, praying for the lorcha to come around. Brock was standing on the poop, shouting at the crew who were desperately trying to douse the fire. A cluster of burning rigging fell near Brock but he paid it no attention, concentrating only on the point amidships starboard that he had selected for impact.

Struan aimed carefully and when the lorcha was fifteen yards away he shot. The arrow tore into the bulkhead beside Brock’s head but Brock’s lorcha held her course. Struan’s boat started to come around, but it was too late. Struan felt a shuddering impact and heard the sickening crunch of splintered timber as the barb on Brock’s lorcha sliced along the larboard side. Struan’s boat reeled over and almost capsized, throwing Struan to the deck.

Showered with sparks of burning rigging and sails, Struan climbed to his feet. There were shrieks from the panic-stricken Chinese and raucous cries from Brock’s men as both crews fought out of the fiery tangle. Amid the uproar Struan heard Brock shout, “Beg thy pardon,” and the two boats separated, Brock’s lorcha moving ahead, its sails aflame. Struan’s boat righted herself, heeled drunkenly to starboard, rolled back and hung upright, listing dangerously to port.

Struan seized the tiller and shoved it over with all his might. The lorcha obeyed sluggishly, and when the wind caught the sails, Struan headed for shore, hoping frantically that he could beach her before she sank.

He could see that both of Brock’s sails were on fire. He knew that they would have to be cut adrift and then replaced. Suddenly he noticed that his deck was angled ten degrees to port—to the 
opposite
 side of impact. He struggled up the sloping deck and stared over the side at the huge gash that had been ripped open. The bottom of the gash was only an inch under the waterline and Struan realized that the shock of impact had shifted the bullion crates across the hold. The weight of the bullion was keeping the boat at this permanent list.

He yelled at Wung to man the tiller and hold it on the same course.

Then he picked up the fighting iron and scrambled forward and, whirling the fighting iron, herded several of the crew below. En route to the hold he glimpsed May-may and Ah Gip, unhurt but shaken, in the wreck of the main cabin.

“Go upside! Hold boom-boom!”

The hold was a shambles. The crates were shattered and silver bricks were strewn everywhere. The unbroken crates were jammed against the port side. Water was pouring in through the gash. The crew turned, at bay, but he drove them deeper into the hold and made them douse the small fires created by the scattered coals.

Swearing and gesturing, he showed them that he wanted the crates shoved and stacked farther to port. Ankle-deep in water, the Chinese were terrified of drowning but more terrified of the slashing iron whip, and they did as Struan ordered. The lorcha heeled perilously, screaming, and the gash inched out of the water. Struan fetched the spare mizzen and began to cram the canvas into the torn side of the vessel, using a few of the silver bricks as wedges.

“God’s blood!” he roared. “Quick-quick!”

The crew leaped to help, and soon the gash was sealed against the water. Struan motioned the crew to pick up the spare mainsail, and drove them back on deck.

May-may and Ah Gip were shaken but unharmed. May-may still grasped the pistol, Ah Gip the musket. Wung, paralyzed with fright, was holding the course. Struan goaded the men forward and with their help passed the canvas mainsail under the prow of the boat, under the hull, then lashed it tightly over the rip. The suction from the water tightened the sail over the gash as the boat wallowed helplessly, near capsizing.

Once more he forced the men below and after wedging the caulking canvas tighter, had them rearrange the rest of the crates to maintain a less dangerous list to port.

He went back on deck and inspected the mainsail lashings. When he ascertained they were firm and tight and holding, he began to breathe freely again.

“You all right, May-may?”

“Wat ah?” she said.

“Hurt youah?”

“Can.” She pointed to her wrist. It was torn and bleeding. He examined it carefully. Though it pained her, it did not seem to be broken. He poured rum over the wounds and then drank deeply and looked aft. Brock’s lorcha was drifting, the mainsail and foresail rigging burning furiously. He watched the crew cut away the rigging and the sails fell overboard. They burned for a moment in the water. Then there was blackness. A few junks and sampans were nearby, but none of them had gone to the assistance of the burning lorcha.

Struan peered ahead. Six Rock Channel—a little-known waterway—was on the lee quarter. He tried the tiller cautiously and the ship eased off a few points. The wind pressed the sails and the boat listed sharply, submerging the gash. There was a warning shout from the crew and Struan corrected the list. Dangerous to sail like this, he thought. I dare na tack to starboard. A slight sea’ll rip the covering off and we’ll sink like a stone. If I go through Six Rock Channel, Brock’ll never find me, but I canna tack to maneuver. So I have to stay in the river. Scud down before the wind, as straight as possible.

He checked his position. The Marble Pagoda was eight or nine miles downstream.

With the protective sail around her keel acting like a storm anchor, the lorcha was making only two or three knots. Having to stay close to the wind to avoid tacking would further cut down her speed. Ahead the river curled and twisted. With joss I will na have to tack to starboard. I’ll down sails and let her drift and raise sail again when I’m in position. He gave the tiller to Wung and went below and rechecked the caulking canvas. It will hold for a time—with joss, he thought. He picked up some teacups and went on deck.

The crew was grouped to one side, holding on grimly. There were only six men.

“Heya! Six bull only. Where two-ah?”

Wung pointed over the side and laughed. “Crash-bang, fall!” Then he waved astern, and shrugged. “Never mind.”

“God’s blood, wat for no save, heya?”

“Wat for save, heya?”

Struan knew that it was pointless to try to explain. According to the Chinese, it was joss that the men had fallen overboard. It was just joss—their joss—to drown, and also it was the will of the gods. Very unwise to interfere with the will of the gods. Save a man from dying, then you yourself are responsible for him for the rest of the man’s life. That’s fair. Because if you interfere with the will of the gods, you must be prepared to assume their responsibility.

Struan poured a cup of rum and gave it to May-may. He offered each of the crew a tot in turn, expecting no thanks and receiving none. Strange, he told himself, but Chinese. Why should they thank me for saving their lives? It was joss that we did not sink.

Thank you, God, for my joss. Thank you.

“Hola!” one of the crew called out anxiously, looking over the side.

The canvas caulking was coming adrift. Struan rushed below. He slipped off the fighting iron and pushed the waterlogged sail deeper into the ship’s wound. Water three feet deep sloshed around in the bilges. He levered a crate tighter against the canvas and wedged more silver bricks into the crevices.

“It’ll hold,” he said aloud. “Aye, maybe.”

He picked up the fighting iron and went into the main cabin. It was a shambles. He looked at the bunk longingly, picked up a grass-filled palliasse and climbed the gangway.

He froze at the top of the steps. Wung was pointing the pistol at him. A second Chinese held the musket, Ah Gip inert at his feet. One of the crew had an armlock on May-may, and was holding a hand over her mouth. Wung pulled the trigger as Struan instinctively lifted up the palliasse and hurtled to one side of the gangway. He felt the ball crease his neck and he lunged up on deck, his face stung by the gunpowder, the palliasse a pathetic shield. The second Chinese fired point-blank, but the musket exploded and blew his hands off, and he stared at the stumps of his arms, astonished, and screamed.

Struan whirled the fighting iron as Wung and the crew attacked. The barbed ball caught Wung flush on the side of the face, tearing off half his mouth, and he reeled away. Struan flailed and another man fell and another jumped on his back and tried to throttle him, using his own queue as a garrote, but Struan shook him off. The man holding May-may leaped forward and Struan shoved the fighting iron’s haft into his face and then, when the man shrieked and fell, Struan trampled him. The two men who were unhurt fled to the bow. Gasping for breath, Struan instantly rushed after them. They jumped overboard. There was a scream from the poop. Wung, grotesque, the blood gushing from half a face, was groping blindly for May-may. She slid out of his grasp and hobbled for cover.

Struan walked back and killed him.

The man with no hands was screaming hideously. Struan killed him quickly and painlessly.

There was silence on the deck.

May-may stared down at a dismembered hand and was violently sick. Struan kicked the hand overboard. When he had regained his strength, he threw all but one of the bodies overboard. He examined Ah Gip. She was breathing through her mouth, the blood trickling from her nose.

“I think she’ll be all right,” he said, and was astonished at the thickness of his voice. He felt his face. The pain was coming in violent waves. He slumped beside May-may. “What happened?”

“I dinna ken,” she said, beyond tears. “One moment I was with pistol, the next, they had hand over my mouth and they fired at you. Why aren’t you deaded?”

“I feel like I am,” he said. The left side of his face was badly scorched. His hair was singed and half an eyebrow was missing. The pain in his chest was lessening.

“What for they—Wung and they—do this? What for? He’s Jin-qua’s trusted,” she said.

“You said yoursel’ that any’d try to steal the bullion. Aye. Any. I dinna blame them. I was a fool to go below.”

He checked the course ahead. They were still limping in the right direction.

May-may saw the sear on his neck. “Another inch, half an inch,” she whispered. “Praise the gods for joss. I will make huge gift.”

Struan was smelling the sweet blood stench, and now that he was safe, his stomach turned over and he groped for the side and retched. Afterward he found a wooden pail and cleaned the deck. Then he cleaned the fighting iron.

“What for do you leave that man?” May-may asked.

“He’s na dead.”

“Throw him overboard.”

“When he’s dead. Or when he wakes, if he does, he can jump.” Struan breathed the air deeply and his nausea left him. His legs aching with fatigue, he went over to Ah Gip and lifted her onto the main housing. “Did you see where she got hit?”

“No.”

Struan undid her padded coat and examined her carefully. Her chest and back were unmarked but there was a trace of blood at the base of her queue. He wrapped her again and settled her as well as he could. Her face looked gray and mottled; her breathing was choked. “She does na look good.”

“How far must we go now?” May-may said.

“Two or three hours.” He took the helm. “I dinna ken. Maybe more.”

May-may lay back and let the wind and chill air clear her head.

Struan saw the broken bottle of rum rolling in the scuppers. “Go below. See if there’s another bottle of rum, will you? I think there were two, eh?”

“Sorry, Tai-Pan. I almost kill us with my own stupid.”

“Nay, lass. It was the bullion. Check the hold.”

She picked her way below. She was gone a long time.

When she returned she was carrying a teapot and two cups.

“I make tea,” she said proudly. “I make fire and I make tea. The rum bottle, she was broke. So we have tea.”