“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 survivaclass="underline" Bring your enemy to battle only on your terms, never on his.
“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.