The sky told Struan that the weather would be fair, but the tang on the wind felt smooth and dry and dewless, without body. He knew that this wind would lessen and further reduce their speed. But he was not worried; he had made the journey so many times that he knew the shoals and the rivers and tributaries and checkpoints intimately.
The approach to Canton was a maze of waterways and islands, large and small, covering an area five miles by twenty miles. There were many different ways to come upstream. And to go downstream.
Struan was happy to be afloat again. And happy that their journey to the Marble Pagoda had begun. He swayed easily to the motion of the lorcha. Wung was near the helmsman, and the crew was scattered around the deck, malevolent and sullen. Struan saw that the prow lookout was in place.
Ahead, half a mile, the river forked around an island. At the approaches to the fork was a shoal to be avoided. Struan said nothing and waited. He heard Wung speak to the helmsman, who put his tiller over and swerved the lorcha safely away from the shoal. Good, Struan thought. At least Wung knew part of the waterways. He was anxious to see what route Wung would take around the island. Both routes were good but the north was better than the south. The lorcha held its course and headed into the north channel. Struan turned and shook his head and pointed to the south channel just in case Wung had arranged an ambush.
The helmsman glanced at Wung for confirmation. Struan made only the slightest movement toward the helmsman. The helm was swung over quickly and the sails flapped momentarily and the lorcha came about onto the new course.
“Wat for go that way, heya? Wat for hit my? Plenty bad. Plenty.” Wung moved over to the gunnel and glared into the night.
The wind freshened slightly, and the lorcha increased speed as they moved into the south channel. At the limit of their tack, Struan motioned the helmsman to put his tiller over. The boat came about slowly, and then, on the new tack, the wind caught the flapping sails. The booms creaked across the deck and the boat lurched slightly and began to gain way once more.
He ordered the sails trimmed and they sailed smoothly for half an hour, part of the river traffic. Then out of the corner of his eye Struan saw a big lorcha bearing down on them swiftly from the windward. Brock was standing in the bow. Struan crouched and scurried over to the tiller and shoved the man aside. Wung and the helmsman were startled and began chattering excitedly, and all the crew watched Struan.
He swung the tiller hard to starboard and prayed that the lorcha would answer the helm quickly. He heard Brock’s voice faintly—“Starboard yor helm, right smartly!”—and he felt the wind scud from his sails. Struan slammed the tiller over to jibe and reverse direction; but the lorcha did not respond, and Brock’s lorcha drew alongside. He saw the grappling hooks catch and hold fast. He leveled a musket.
“Oh, it’s thee, Dirk, by God!” Brock called out, feigning astonishment. He was leaning on the gunnel, a broad smile on his face.
“Grapples are an act of piracy, Brock!” Struan tossed his knife, haft first, to Wung. “Chop grapples quick-quick!”
“Right you are, lad. Beg pardon for the grapples,” Brock said. “I thort you be lorcha in need of a tow. Doan see thy flag aloft. Thee be ashamed of it maybe?”
Struan saw that Brock’s crew was armed and at action stations. Gorth was on the poop deck beside a small swivel gun, and although the gun was not pointing at him, he knew it would be primed and ready to fire. “Next time you grapple a ship of mine, I’ll presume you’re pirates and blow your head off.”
“Permission to come aboard, Dirk?”
“Aye.”
Brock slipped through the rigging of his ship and leaped aboard. Three men jumped up on the gunnel to follow him, but Struan leveled the musket and shouted, “Hold there! Any of you come aboard without permission, I’ll blow you to hell.”
The men stopped in their tracks.
“Quite right,” Brock said sardonically. “That be the law of the sea. A captain invites who he likes and who he doan. Stay where thee be!”
Struan shoved Wung forward. “Chop grapples!” The frightened Chinese rushed forward and began to hack the ropes. Gorth swung the swivel gun and Struan aimed at him.
“Stand off, Gorth!” Brock said sharply. The law of the sea was on Struan’s side: grappling was an act of piracy. And coming aboard armed, without permission, was piracy, and of all the laws of England none were so zealously guarded or enforced as the laws of ships at sea and the powers of a captain afloat. For piracy there was only one punishment: hanging.
Wung cut the last of the lines and the boats began to drift apart. When Brock’s lorcha was thirty feet away, Struan put down the musket and shouted, “You come within fifty feet of me without permission, by God, I’ll charge you with piracy!” Then he leaned against the gunnel. “What’s all this about, Tyler?”
“I could ask thee the same thing, Dirk,” Brock said easily. “I seed thee snuck down in that there sampan yesterday.” His eye glittered in the light of the lantern. “Then I seed thee, dressed right proper curious like a coolie and, glory be to God, thee went back into factory. Strange, says I. Maybe old Dirk’s gone sick in the head. Or maybe old Dirk needin’ a hand to get safe out of Canton. So we sails downstream aways and then snuck back and anchors north o’ the Settlement. Then we seed thee board this stinking craft. Thee an’ two doxies.”
“What I do’s my own affair.”
“Yus, that it be.” Struan’s mind was churning. He knew that Brock’s lorcha was far swifter than his, that the crew was dangerous and well armed, and that he was no match for them alone. He cursed himself for being so confident and for not keeping watch.
But then you could na have seen Brock sneak upstream. How to put Brock to your advantage? Must be some way. He can easily run you down in the night, and even if you survive, there’d be little you could prove. Brock’d claim that it was an accident. Then, too, May-may can na swim.
“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.”