Oh God, give me strength to endure five months and another twelve months and the voyage home, and please make Sarah’s time easy.
He leaned over the rail and was very sick.
“Two points to port,” Struan said, watching the shore of Hong Kong carefully. He was almost close enough to the finger of rocks off the starboard bow and well to windward of the line of junks. A few minutes more and he would turn and hurtle at the junk he had already marked for death, and he would smash through the line safely—if there were no fire ships and if the wind did not slacken and if no hidden reef or bank mutilated him.
The sky was darkening to the north. The monsoon was holding true, but Struan knew that in these waters the wind could shift a quarter or more with alarming suddenness, or a violent squall could sweep out of the seas. With the ship carrying so much sail he would be in great danger, for the wind could rip away his sails before he could reef them, or tear away his masts. Then too, there could be many reefs and shoals waiting to tear his ship’s belly open. There were no charts of these waters. But Struan knew that only speed would carry them to safety. And joss.
“
Gott im Himmel!” Mauss was peering through the binoculars. “It’s the Lotus! The Silver Lotus!”
Struan grabbed the binoculars and focused on the flag that flew atop the huge junk: a silver flower on a red background. No mistake. It was the Silver Lotus, the flag of Wu Fang Choi, the pirate king, whose sadism was legendary, whose countless fleets ravaged and ruled the coasts of all south China and exacted tribute a thousand miles north and south. Supposedly, his base was in Formosa.
“What’s Wu Fang Choi doing in these waters?” Mauss asked. Again he felt the weird hope-fear welling in him. Thy will be done, oh Lord.
“The bullion,” Struan said. “It must be the bullion. Otherwise Wu Fang Choi would never risk coming here, na with our fleet so close.”
For years the Portuguese and all the traders had paid tribute to Wu Fang Choi for the safe conduct of their ships. Tribute was cheaper than the loss of the merchantmen, and his junks kept the south China seas rid of other pirates—most of the time. But with the coming of the expeditionary force last year, the British traders had ceased paying for this safe passage, and one of Wu Fang’s pirate fleets had begun to plunder the sea-lanes and the coast near Macao. Four Royal Navy frigates had sought out and destroyed most of the pirate junks, and followed those that fled into Bias Bay—a pirate haven on the coast, forty miles north of Hong Kong. There the frigates had laid waste the pirate junks and sampans, and had fired two pirate villages. Since that time the flag of Wu Fang Choi had never ventured near.
A cannon boomed from the pirate flagship, and astonishingly all the junks except one turned into the wind and downed mainsails, leaving only their short sails aft to give them leeway. A small junk detached itself from the fleet and headed the mile toward
China Cloud.
“Helm alee!” Struan ordered, and
China Cloud was turned into the wind. The sails flapped anxiously and the ship lost way and almost stopped. “Keep her head t’wind!”
“Aye, aye, sorr!”
Struan was looking through the binoculars at the small junk. Waving from the masthead was a white flag. “God’s death! What’re they playing at? Chinese never use a flag o’ truce!” The ship came closer and Struan was even more dumfounded at the sight of a huge black-bearded European dressed in heavy seafaring clothes, cutlass at his belt, conning the junk. Beside the man was a young Chinese boy, richly dressed in green brocade gown and pants and soft black boots. Struan saw the European train his long telescope on
China Cloud. After a moment the man put the telescope down, laughed uproariously and waved.
Struan passed the binoculars to Mauss. “What do you make of that man?” He leaned across to Captain Orlov, who had a telescope trained on the junk. “Cap’n?”
“Pirate, that’s certain.” Orlov handed his telescope to Robb. “Another rumor is confirmed—that Wu Fang Choi has Europeans in his fleet.”
“But why would they all down sails, Dirk?” Robb said incredulously.
“The emissary’ll tell us.” Struan walked to the edge of the quarterdeck. “Mister,” he called out to Cudahy, “ready to put a shot across his bows!”
“Aye, aye, sorr.” Cudahy jumped for the first cannon and trained it.
“Cap’n Orlov! Get the longboat ready. You lead the boarding party. If we dinna sink her first.”
“Why board her, Dirk?” Robb said, approaching Struan.
“No pirate junk’s coming within fifty yards. It may be a fire ship or full of powder. In times like these it’s better to be ready for devilment.”
Culum self-consciously appeared in the companionway dressed in a seaman’s clothes—heavy woolen shirt and woolen jacket and wide-legged trousers and rope shoes.
“Hello, lad,” Struan said.
“What’s going on?”
Struan told him, and added, “The clothes suit you, lad. You’re looking better.”
“I am much better,” Culum said, feeling uncomfortable and alien.
When the pirate junk was a hundred yards away,
China Cloud put a shot across her bows and Struan picked up a horn. “Heave to!” he shouted. “Or I’ll blow you out of the water!”
Obediently the junk swung into the wind and dropped her sails and began to drift with the strength of the tide.
“Ahoy,
China Cloud! Permission to come aboard,” the black-bearded man shouted.
“Why, and who are you?”
“Cap’n Scragger, late o’ London Town,” the man called back and guffawed. “A word in yor ear, M’Lord Struan, privy like!”
“Come aboard alone. Unarmed!”
“Flag o’ truce, matey?”
“Aye!” Struan walked to the quarterdeck rail. “Keep the junk covered, Mr. Cudahy!”
“He be covered, sorr!”
A small dinghy was lowered over the side of the junk, and Scragger climbed into it nimbly and began rowing toward
China Cloud. As he approached he began singing in a rich, lilting voice. It was a sea chantey, “Blow the Man Down.”
“Cocky sod,” Struan said, amused in spite of himself.
“Scragger’s an uncommon name,” Robb said. “Didn’t Great-Aunt Ethel marry a Scragger of London?”
“Aye. I thought the same, lad.” Struan grinned. “Mayhaps we’ve a relation who’s a pirate.”
“Aren’t we all pirates?”
Struan’s grin broadened. “The Noble House’ll be safe in your hands, Robb. You’re a wise man—wiser than you give yoursel’ credit for.” He looked back at the dinghy. “Cocky sod!”
Scragger appeared to be in his thirties. His long unkempt hair and his beard were raven-black. His eyes were pale blue and small, and his hands like hams. Golden rings hung from his ears and a jagged scar puckered the left side of his face.
He tied his dinghy up and scaled the boarding net with practiced ease. As he jumped onto the deck he touched his forelock with mock deference to the quarterdeck and made an elaborate bow. “Morning, Yor Honors!” Then to the seamen who were gaping at him, “Morning, mateys! Me guv’, Wu Fang Choi, wishes you a safe journey ’ome!” He laughed and showed broken teeth, then came to the quarterdeck and stopped in front of Struan. He was shorter than Struan but thicker. “Let’s go below!”