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.