Struan unfolded the paper. It bore Jin-qua’s chop. And it contained one of the coin halves.
CHAPTER TEN
Struan was standing easily in the prow of his longboat, his hands deep in the pockets of his heavy sea coat, a fighting iron thonged to his wrist, pistols in his belt. His men were rowing tensely, heavily armed. Scragger was sitting amidships boozily singing a sea chantey. A hundred yards ahead was the pirate flagship. By prearrangement with Scragger—at Struan’s insistence—the flagship had detached itself from the protective junk fleet and had moved closer to shore, a few hundred yards to leeward of
China Cloud. There, with only the small aft sail aloft to give her leeway, the flagship was under
China Cloud’s guns and at her mercy. But the remainder of the junk armada was still in blockade positions surrounding the two ships.
Struan knew that it was dangerous to board the pirate ship alone, but the broken coin left him no choice. He would have taken Mauss along—an interpreter was necessary and Mauss was also a demon in a fight. But Scragger had refused: “Alone, Tai-Pan. There be they aboard wot talks the heathen and talks the English. Alone. Armed if you likes but alone. That be the askt.”
Before leaving
China Cloud, Struan had given final orders in front of Scragger.
“If the flagship raises sail, blow her out of the water. If I’ve na left in one hour, blow her out of the water.”
“Now, Tai-Pan,” Scragger had said uncomfortably, forcing a laugh, “that not be the way of alooking at ’is invitation like. No way at all, at all. The flag o’ truce, matey.”
“Blow her out of the water. But first hang the boy from the yardarm.”
“Don’t worry,” Orlov said malevolently. “The boy’s dead, and by the blood of Jesus Christ I’ll never leave this water while one junk’s afloat.”
“Oars ho!” Struan ordered as the cutter came alongside the junk. A hundred Chinese pirates lined the sides, chattering, jeering. Struan noted the firing ports. Twenty a side. Forty guns.
He mounted the boarding ladder, and once on deck he observed that the cannons were in good order; that powder kegs were scattered carelessly, and stink bombs and fire bombs numerous; that the pirate ship was heavily manned. Filth everywhere but no sign of disease or scurvy. Sails in good condition, rigging tight. Hard—if it impossible—to take, hand to hand. But no trouble for
China Cloud to sink—with joss.
He followed Scragger below to the main cabin under the poop deck, unconsciously marking gangways and hazards in case retreat were necessary. They came to a filthy anteroom jammed with men. Scragger pushed through them to a door at the far end, guarded by a truculent Chinese who pointed to Struan’s weapons and reviled Scragger. But Scragger shouted back in Cantonese and, contemptuously shoving the guard aside with one hand, opened the door.
The cabin was enormous. Dirty cushions littered a raised dais which was dominated by a low, scarlet-lacquered table. The room, like the ship, stank of sweat and decayed fish and blood. Behind the dais aft was a latticed wall, deck to bulkhead. It was richly carved, and curtained from the other side, where the warlord slept. Impossible to see through from this side, Struan thought, but easy to shoot or stick a sword through. He noted the four barred portholes, and six oil lanterns swinging from the rafter beams.
A door in the latticed wall opened.
Wu Kwok was short and burly and middle-aged. His face was round and cruel, his queue long and greasy. The rich green silk gown tied around his protruding belly was grease-stained. He wore fine leather seaboots, and his wrists were encircled with many priceless jade bracelets.
He appraised Struan for a while, then motioned him to the dais and sat down on one side of the table. Struan sat opposite him. Scragger leaned against the closed door, scratching absently, a sardonic smile on his face.
Struan and Wu Kwok stared at each other unwaveringly, motionless. At length Wu Kwok raised his hand slightly and a servant brought chopsticks and cups and tea and moon cakes—tiny delicate rice-flour cakes stuffed with almond custard—and a plate of assorted
dim sum.
Dim sum were small delicate rice-dough pastries filled with shrimp or fried pork or chicken or vegetables, or fish. Some were steamed, others deep-fried.
The servant poured the tea.
Wu Kwok lifted his cup and motioned Struan to do the same. They drank silently, their eyes locked. Then the pirate picked up his chopsticks and selected a dim sum. He placed it on the small dish in front of Struan and motioned him to eat. Struan knew that although he had been provided with chopsticks, Wu Kwok expected him to eat with his hands like a barbarian and lose face.
Up you, you flyblown offal, he thought, and thanked his joss for May-may. He picked up the chopsticks deftly and carried the dim sum to his mouth and replaced the chopsticks on their porcelain bed and chewed with enjoyment, and was further pleased to sense the pirate’s astonishment —that a barbarian could eat like a civilized person!
Struan picked up his chopsticks again and meticulously chose another dim sum from the plate: the smallest and the most delicate, the most difficult to hold. It was one of the steamed, shrimp-filled doughs, the white pastry so thin as to be almost translucent. He lifted it quickly and effortlessly, praying to himself that he wouldn’t drop it. He held it out at arm’s length, offering it to Wu Kwok.
Wu Kwok’s chopsticks snaked out and he took the dim sum and carried it to his small dish. But a tiny piece of shrimp fell onto the table. Though Wu Kwok remained impassive, Struan knew that he was enraged, for he had lost face.
Struan delivered the
coup de grace. Leaning over, he picked up the morsel of shrimp and put it on his plate, and selected another tiny dim sum. Again he offered it. Wu Kwok took it. He did not drop any part of it.
He offered one to Struan, and Struan took it casually in midair and ate with relish but refused the next one offered. It was the height of Chinese decorum to pretend to the host that the food was so good that one could eat no more, even though both host and guest knew they would continue to eat ravenously.
“You take more grub, matey! There be plenty o’ the likes o’ this,” Wu Kwok said suddenly, pressing him as a host should.
The shock of hearing the harsh Cockney accent coming from Wu Kwok lessened Struan’s pleasure with the face he had gained by making Wu Kwok speak first.
“Thank you. I’m glad you speak English. That makes things easier,” Struan said. “A lot easier.”
“Yus, that it do.” Wu Kwok was very proud that he could talk barbarian.
“Where did you learn English?” Struan leaned down and scratched his ankle. The deck and cushions were flea-infested.
“Where’d the likes o’ you learn t’ eat like’n
China man, hey?”
Struan selected another pastry. “I’ve tried to learn Cantonese, many times. But I’m na a good student and my tongue canna get the sounds right.” He ate the pastry delicately and drank some tea. “The tea is excellent. From Soochow?”
Wu Kwok shook his head, “Lin Tin. You likes Soochow tea?”