“Mama and Papa have sent them to rescue us!” Vicky cried.
Tears of relief pricked my eyes. I breathed a prayer of fervent thanks, even as I wondered how this miracle had come to be.
A voice thundered from one of the ships: “Attention, Mr. Kuan! In the name of the British Crown, I order you to surrender!”
I recognized that voice. It belonged to Mr. Slade! Now I spotted him on a naval ship amidst the soldiers. Jubilation swelled my heart. With his keen, determined features lit by the lanterns and his black hair wild in the wind, he looked to me like a Spartan warrior come to rescue Helen of Troy.
“I will not surrender,” came Kuan’s voice, his tone fearless and adamant. “Let me pass.”
“You cannot escape,” Mr. Slade called. “You’re surrounded. We’re coming aboard to take the children and Miss Brontë. I advise you to cooperate.”
The ship on which he stood rumbled its engine louder and approached nearer to us, huffing steam and smoke. Kuan said, “Come no closer, or I’ll open fire.”
From above me I heard the scrape and creak of mechanical devices moving and heavy wheels rolling: Kuan’s crew was opening the gun ports and positioning cannon. I heard Mr. Slade reply, “You would be a fool to attack us. We have far greater fire power than you do.”
“You would be a fool to attack me while I hold your royal prince and princess captive,” Kuan said. “How unfortunate for you if they should be killed in a battle.”
“We’ll not allow you to take them to China,” Mr. Slade said. Although I knew he must fear for the children, his voice remained calm; his determination matched Kuan’s. “We’re coming to fetch them and Miss Brontë.”
“I’ll kill them first,” Kuan said.
Vicky gasped. “He isn’t really going to hurt us, is he, Miss Brontë?”
“He can’t,” Bertie declared.
But Kuan was doomed to die for his crimes whether or not he surrendered, whether or not he spared us. He had nothing to lose by resisting. Furthermore, his pride would never allow him to surrender, and he would take us down with him to spite his enemies.
The ship on which Mr. Slade stood advanced on ours. Sudden, thunderous booms jarred my bones, deafening my ears, and I smelled acrid gunpowder. Vicky and Bertie screamed and hugged me. The floor below us shook with each explosion. Kuan had fired his cannons. Smoke wafted from Mr. Slade’s ship, where troops scrambled about the deck. I heard them shouting as volleys of gunshots filled the night. I could no longer see Mr. Slade, who was lost in the chaos. On the other naval ship visible to me, men floundered beneath a fallen mast. Sparks flared from rifles as the navy troops’ bullets cracked against our ship, and I gathered the children as far from the window as possible. During an instant’s lull in the din, I heard Kuan call, “Bring up the hostages.”
If there ever was a time for me to act, it was now. I could not wait out the battle in the vain hope that Providence would favor us. Our rescuers were themselves in peril, and Kuan might kill us before they could board his ship. Determined to keep us out of his hands, I grabbed the rod I had hidden under my bunk. Inserting it between the door and the frame, I pried. The gunshots and cannon fire continued. Footsteps hastened down the staircase towards us.
“They’re coming. Hurry up!” shouted Bertie.
“Exert yourself, Miss Brontë,” Vicky pleaded.
Although I strained mightily, the door did not budge. Someone was working the lock. I sprang backward, the rod still gripped in my hands, shielding the children behind me. The door flew open, and a Chinese crewman burst into the cabin. His face was savage; he held a pistol. Vicky and Bertie screamed. Compelled by a sudden swift, primitive instinct, I swung the rod at the man and struck him hard across the face. I felt the sensation of flesh yielding, bones breaking. Blood poured from his nose, and his eyes went blank as he crashed to the floor.
Never before had I struck down anyone, but I had no time to marvel at my deed, for Nick appeared at the threshold. Mute and menacing, he stepped towards us over the inert Chinaman. I swung the rod, but he caught it, wrenched it from my hands, and tossed it away. He reached for me, when suddenly Bertie hurled himself at Nick. The boy pummeled Nick while screeching at the top of his lungs. When Nick tried to push him away, Bertie sank his teeth into Nick’s calf. Nick yowled—the first sound I’d ever heard from him. He punched Bertie and pulled at his hair, but Bertie growled and hung on, like a dog gnawing a bone. He and Nick fell down together. Vicky snatched up the rod. She beat Nick soundly about the head until he lay motionless. Bertie sprung up, Nick’s blood trickling from his mouth. He and Vicky cheered in triumph. No king among their ancestors could have fought a battle more valiantly.
“We must hurry,” I said, urging them towards the door.
I took the pistol from the fallen Chinaman. A weapon might prove useful, although I’d never fired a gun and it felt heavy and awkward. I put it gingerly in my pocket, afraid I might somehow shoot myself. I hurried the children along the vacant passage, then up the stairs. Through the open hatch I heard the shooting. Our way was lit by red-orange firelight; screams of agony from men struck by bullets greeted us as we climbed. We paused at the top of the stairs and peered out through the hatch.
On the deck, bodies lay in puddles of blood while sailors manned the cannons or hunched at the railings and fired rifles. Our ship quaked as the guns below deck roared. In the distance loomed a naval ship engulfed by flames. Smoke billowed to the turbulent sky. I couldn’t know whether the ship was Mr. Slade’s. I suppressed the terrible thought that he had died in his attempt to rescue us. That the navy had not destroyed our vessel was due only to its fear of harming the children. I didn’t see Kuan, Hitchman, or T’ingnan, but I could not assume they were among the dead. My only hope was to get Vicky, Bertie, and myself out of their reach. But how? As I frantically looked about for inspiration, I spied T’ing-nan shambling down the deck. He caught sight of us, and his eyes filled with murderous rage.
“This your fault,” he shouted, pointing his finger at me. “We all die because of you!”
He rushed towards us. Vicky and Bertie squealed, cowering against me. Suddenly T’ing-nan cried out, his body jerked, and the rage on his face turned to shock. Blood gushed from a wound in his neck, where a bullet had struck him. He fell and lay still. I experienced an ache of pity for the boy whose life had been destroyed by his father’s evil.
A hailstorm of bullets battered the cabin wall very near us. If I couldn’t get the children off the ship, I must find them shelter. Holding hands, we raced past the cabin while bullets impinged its walls. The deck pitched with the sea’s motion; we skidded on boards slick with blood. Fortunately, the crew was too busy returning fire to notice us. I hurried them through a door in the cabin, into a dim space that contained barrels, ropes, and other equipment. The battle sounds were muted, and I heard voices from an adjacent room whose door stood ajar. Inside it, Kuan and Hitchman were engaged in an argument. I turned to flee with the children, but I saw Nick outside on the deck, crouching below the barrage of gunfire. What a pity that Vicky’s blows hadn’t killed him! His head was bruised and bloody, his eyes searching for us. Trapped between him and Kuan, we hid ourselves behind the barrels.
Hitchman said, “You must face the truth, Kuan. It’s over.”
“It is not over until I decide it is,” came Kuan’s cold, firm reply.
“Half our crew is dead,” Hitchman said. I heard panic and urgency in his voice. “The rest of them can’t hold off the navy forever.”
“Justice is on our side,” Kuan said with a calmness that seemed eerie under the circumstances. “We will prevail.”
Hitchman uttered a humorless laugh. “No doubt our adversaries think the same of themselves. And they are far better equipped than we are.”
“As long as I am alive, I shall not give up.” Kuan’s face blazed with ferocious determination.
He still clung to his hope of forcing Britain out of China and halting the opium trade. But Hi
tchman said, “Your plans are done for. I say we hand over the children and surrender.”
“Are you mad?” Kuan stared at Hitchman in disbelief. “If we let them capture us, we’ll be executed.”
“If we let them capture us, at least we won’t die tonight,” Hitchman said. I knew then that he had never been truly committed to carrying out Kuan’s scheme, and his personal devotion to Kuan was waning fast.
“We’ll live only for as long as it takes us to be sent to the gallows,” Kuan said.
“I was lucky enough to escape death once before when things looked hopeless,” Hitchman said. “I’m willing to bet I’ll be lucky again.”
The gunfire continued, but there seemed to be more shots coming in our direction than going towards the navy. “You were lucky only because I saved you in China,” Kuan said, harsh and unyielding. “We must stand together.”
“Sorry, old friend,” Hitchman said, “but this is where we part ways. I’m going to hand over the children and the Brontë woman and bargain for leniency.”
As he turned to walk out the door, the children and I shrank behind the barrels. I didn’t trust him to do right by us, and if Kuan should find us, he would never let us go.
Kuan blocked Hitchman’s exit. “I forbid you!” Outraged that Hitchman would defy him, he shouted, “You owe me your life. You will not betray me now!”
“I’ve more than repaid my debt to you,” Hitchman said. “Move out of my way.”
Just then Nick hurried in to them. He said in urgent, stilted, guttural speech: “Woman and children—gone!”
Kuan and Hitchman turned to him in consternation. I seized the children by their hands and fled with them. On our way out of the cabin, I bumped some object, which toppled with a loud clang. I heard Hitchman say, “There they are!”
We ran down the deck. They pounded after us as we swerved around dead bodies, past troops loading cannons.
“Stop them!” Kuan shouted.
Chinese crewmen joined the pursuit. Vicky moaned in fright while Bertie whooped as if this chase were a game of tag. The ship rocked; we zigzagged back and forth amidst flying bullets. Reaching the stern, we veered around the cabin. Hitchman and Nick came racing at us from the opposite direction, while Kuan and his crewmen caught up with us. Trapped and out of breath, we backed towards the railing. The battle and noise faded to the periphery of my awareness as I faced Kuan.
“You are even more clever than I thought, Miss Brontë.” Kuan’s smile expressed both admiration and annoyance. “What a pity that you and I are on opposite sides. Together we might have accomplished great things.”
Flames from the burning navy ship rose behind him; his eyes shone with their own, mad light. “But you won’t get off this vessel. You might as well give up.” He beckoned to me.
I felt the strange lassitude, the weakening of my will, that he always induced. How tempted I was to surrender! How much easier that would be! “No,” I said, shaking my head in an effort to throw off Kuan’s spell. “Let us go!”
“Negotiate with the navy,” Hitchman urged Kuan. “Offer to hand over the hostages in exchange for our lives.”
Kuan gestured to Nick, who pulled Hitchman away and held on to him. As Kuan stepped closer to me, I fumbled the pistol I’d stolen from the Chinaman out of my pocket. I held it in both hands, aimed at him.
“Stop,” I said in a voice that trembled with panic. “Get away from us.”
Kuan froze, startled for a moment before he recovered his poise. “Don’t be ridiculous. Give me the gun, Miss Brontë.”
He held out his hand. His eyes compelled my obedience; they drew me into their fiery depths. “Don’t come any closer,” I quavered as the heavy pistol wobbled in my grip.
“You will not shoot me.” Confidence and scorn broadened Kuan’s smile. “You cannot.”
I feared he was right, for I had never killed and my very soul reviled the thought of taking a human life, even his. The lassitude encroached as my determination crumbled. Kuan now stood close enough to touch me, his face inches from the gun, his eyes intent on mine. The gun’s weight exerted a vast downward pull on my muscles, my spirit.
“Let us go,” I stammered, “or—or—”
“Or we’ll jump off the ship!” Bertie climbed up on the railing. “Come on, Vicky!”
Frightened out of her wits, she followed suit. She and Bertie sat perched atop the railing, their backs towards the roiling ocean. Horrified, I said, “Get down this instant!”
There was an abrupt pause in the shooting from the navy: The troops had spied the children and ceased fire. I saw alarm on Kuan’s face as he realized that Bertie was reckless enough to jump overboard with Vicky.
“If you jump, you’ll drown,” he told Bertie in a voice sharp with his fear of losing his hostages. “Now get off the railing.”
“All right, I will!” Bertie flung his arms around Vicky and toppled overboard. They disappeared from view. I heard a high-pitched scream from Vicky, then a splash.
“No!”
Kuan’s cry of rage echoed to the horizons. Leaning over the rail, he peered at the water, as did I. Below us, the children thrashed in the waves. We turned on each other in mutual fury. I thrust the gun at his face. An instant passed during which he stared down the barrel and I felt my anger towards him break his hold on me. I pulled the trigger.
Instead of a deafening boom, there came a harmless click. But even as Kuan laughed in derision, I dropped the gun, clambered up on the rail, and threw myself overboard. I heard him curse, felt him grab my skirt. It tore. I plummeted, screaming and waving my arms in a vain, instinctive attempt to fly. The ocean heaved up to claim me. I hit the water with a smack that knocked me breathless. Far into the freezing black depths I plunged.
My experience at swimming consisted of one occasion, on a trip to the shore with Ellen. We’d hired a bathing machine—a horse-drawn carriage in which we donned our bathing dresses and rode into the sea. We’d paddled about in the shallows, careful not to wet our hair. Now a cry of terror burbled from me. I flailed in blind panic until I surged to the surface. My head broke through to blessed air. I gulped a breath, but waves washed over me; I swallowed briny sea, choked, and spat. More waves tossed me. I treaded water, hampered by the clothing that billowed around me. Somehow my spectacles had stayed on my face, and I peered, through lenses streaming with water, in desperate search for the children.
At first I saw nothing but empty ocean, and my heart almost died. Then I spotted two heads, bobbing close together nearby. I paddled towards them. Vicky and Bertie gasped and sobbed, tiny flotsam on the swells.
“Hold onto me,” I said.
They obeyed, and I began to swim, albeit incompetently, towards the navy ship. But their weight held me back, as did the crashing waves. The ship seemed as far away as the moon. I glanced back at Kuan’s vessel and saw, to my horror, a boat that contained four Chinese crewmen rowing towards us. I kicked and paddled frantically. As my strength waned, Kuan’s crew sped closer, and I feared we would perish, I saw another boat coming from the direction of the navy ship.
“Miss Brontë!” Mr. Slade shouted from the bow where he sat in front of two officers armed with rifles while two others manned the oars.
Such relief filled me as his boat neared me and Mr. Slade leaned over the side, extending his hand. I heard Kuan shout, “Stop them!”
Gunshots rang. Bullets pelted the water around us. While Mr. Slade lifted Vicky, his officers returned fire. One dropped his rifle and slumped lifeless. Mr. Slade hauled Vicky into the boat, but as he reached for Bertie, he faltered. He clutched his right arm; pain contorted his face: He’d been shot. He grabbed Bertie with his left hand. Kuan’s rowboat closed in on us. One of Mr. Slade’s oarsmen collapsed dead. I pushed Bertie upward. My strength, combined with Mr. Slade’s, propelled Bertie into the boat. I clung to its side, straining to climb in. Mr. Slade grasped my collar; his injured arm dangled, bleeding. The boat dipped low under my weight. The surviving oarsman ro
se to help Mr. Slade, but the gunfire tumbled him overboard. I scrambled into the boat, streaming water, moaning in gratitude.
But now Kuan’s rowboat was upon us. Its crew seized hold of our boat. We rocked and pitched in tandem while the Chinamen reached for the children. Vicky and Bertie squealed. Mr. Slade punched one man in the jaw, another in the stomach, and sent both falling into the sea. They tried to climb into our boat. I snatched up an oar and beat them. One of their comrades aimed a rifle at Mr. Slade. The other seized Bertie. The boy screamed, bit, and kicked. I swung my oar and struck the rifle a hard blow that knocked it sideways. It fired, missing Mr. Slade. Kuan’s man lost his balance and splashed into the ocean. Mr. Slade lurched towards the Chinaman who was tussling with Bertie and kicked him in the ribs. The man howled, loosing his grasp on Bertie. I hit him with the oar, and Mr. Slade shoved him overboard. Mr. Slade sat down and grabbed the other oar.
“Row!” he commanded me.
I obeyed, clumsily because I’d never rowed a boat before. Mr. Slade winced in pain as he wielded his oar. We rolled and buffeted over the waves towards the navy ship.
“Do not let them get away alive!” Kuan shouted. Muzzles spewed bursts of light and a din of shots at us. Bullets hit our boat and cannonballs splashed into the water around us.
“Lie down!” Mr. Slade shouted to Vicky and Bertie.
They flattened their shivering bodies on the boat’s floor. The navy ship loomed huge above us. Officers flung down a rope ladder. I urged Bertie and Vicky up the ladder and followed while shots thudded the ship’s hull. The officers hauled us aboard, then Mr. Slade. The ship blasted Kuan’s with round after round of rifle and cannon fire. Navy men hurried the children into the shelter of the cabin. Exhausted, wet, and shivering on the cold deck, I wept for the joy of salvation. Mr. Slade caught me in a fierce, warm embrace as we watched Kuan’s ship come steaming across the water towards us.
The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë Page 36