The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Bronte tsaocb-1

by Laura Joh Rowland

  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 Bronte.” 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 Bronte.”

  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 Bronte!” 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 rose 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.

  Its masts had fallen; its damaged wheels ground an uneven course. Flames erupted and smoke plumed from within it. Kuan stood alone on a platform in the bow, his face monstrous with rage, hatred, and madness. He shook his fist and ranted words inaudible over the navy’s continuing barrage. Just when I thought his ship would ram ours in a last, futile effort to destroy us, the navy ships launched a concerted onslaught of cannon fire. Great booms resounded to the heavens. Missiles shattered Kuan’s ship. Kuan struggled to keep his balance on his platform. His gaze met mine, and I felt his wrath leap across the narrow distance between us as his crippled vessel slowed and teetered. His lips formed my name; his voice in my head damned me. I saw and heard, as though in a vision we shared, the wartorn city of Canton and the screams of his wife and children as they died victims of a murder that he would never avenge. Mr. Slade held me tight while my sympathy for Kuan and my abhorrence of his evils fought one last battle within me.

  Kuan raised his fists in a gesture of defiance, then dove into the ocean. His ship exploded in a pyre of flames and began to sink. Triumphant cheers arose from navy troops. Mr. Slade and I rushed to the railing and peered overboard. Kuan had vanished.

  I turned to Mr. Slade, who gazed intently into my eyes. “My dearest Charlotte,” he said in such a low voice that I could barely hear him above the noise of the troops rushing and shouting around us. His hand cupped my face. I felt its warmth, its trembling. The ardor in his expression rendered me breathless.

  “I’ve always believed that some thoughts are better left unspoken,” Mr. Slade said. “But this experience has made me realize that by remaining silent, one risks losing the opportunity to say what one needs most to say. If you had died, God forbid-” He shook his head, as though too horrified by the thought to complete it. “Here is what I need to say, and consequences be damned: Please allow me to tell you how deeply I am in love with you.”

  His voice dropped to a whisper that reverberated through me more powerfully than cannon fire. I felt a sweet, soaring bliss that I had never known. For the first time in my life, my love was returned by its object. For this I would gladly relive every terror I had experienced.

  Mr. Slade frowned at me. “Have you nothing to say?” A look that verged on disappointment stole into his eyes. “I thought-I hoped-that you shared my feelings. Was I wrong?”

  “You were not,” I whispered, alight inside with a fire brighter than the flames that still leapt and blazed on the water. “I do.”

  He smiled; he bent his head to mine. As our lips met, I closed my eyes while the bliss soared higher and sweeter inside me. Here, in Mr. Slade’s kiss, was the tenderness that our urgent coupling in the forest had lacked. Here was the moment I had awaited all my life and wished I could savor forever.

  43

  My story should have ended there. it would have allowed you, Reader, to believe that I lived happily ever after, like a princess in a fairy tale. But reality intrudes on the best occasions in life, which are as fleeting as the worst.

  That kiss was the last private moment I was to spend with Mr. Slade for quite some time. We were interrupted by a navy officer, who informed me that the children required my care. I hurried to Vicky and Bertie, took off their wet clothes, wrapped them in blankets, fed them hot broth, and tucked them in bed. They fell asleep while I dried my own waterlogged self and the navy searched for Kuan and survivors from his ship. Hitchman was taken prisoner. Nick, the crew, and T’ing-nan’s body had gone down with the wreck. No trace of Kuan was ever found.

  I was summoned by Lord Unwin, who’d been aboard the navy ship all along, hiding during the battle. He commanded me to give him a full account of the kidnapping. Afraid that I would be blamed for it, I hastened to explain how the Duchess had threatened me at gunpoint. Lord Unwin replied that soon after the Queen had discovered the children missing, he had suspected that Kuan must have another accomplice besides Captain Innes. He’d searched Balmoral Castle and found a pistol and an empty laudanum vial in the Duchess’s room. When he confronted her, she admitted her deed and named the royal guards who had helped her. She also confessed that Kuan had kidnapped her beloved niece to force her to participate in his scheme. I took that to mean that Mr. Slade had suspected, searched, confronted, and obtained the confession. But in any case, I was exonerated; the Duchess and her confederates were to hang.

  It was Lord Unwin who explained to me how the children and I had been located: Mr. Slade had received a telegram from Papa, which said that Kuan had taken us aboard a ship anchored off Aberdeen. How Papa had known this was, at that time, a mystery. The Foreign Office had then joined forces with the navy to find the ship. Lord Unwin swore me to secrecy in regards to the kidnapping and all related events. It was in the best interest of the kingdom that as few persons as possible should know how vulnerable the Crown was, he said, lest Kuan’s example inspire other such attacks. He ordered me to swear my family to secrecy as well. And until the time of this writing, as I relate these details in this document that shall perhaps go unread, I have kept my vow.

  I watched over the children while the ship steamed back to port. Mr. Slade was recuperating from his wound, then occupied with business, and I didn’t see him for some time. At sunrise we reached Aberdeen, where the Queen and Prince Consort joyously greeted Vicky and Bertie and took them away. Me they ignored. Lord Unwin hurried after the royal procession, I assumed to take credit for the rescue and to curry favor. Mr. Slade, reinstated to his post, accompanied Lord Unwin. I was given over to the care of a kindly Scottish officer, whose wife lent me clean, dry clothes, fed me, and gave me a room in which to sleep that night. Longing to see my family, I traveled home by train on the morrow, and reached Haworth the day after that.

  The village that I had once wished to escape now seemed like Paradise. Never had the September sun shone brighter from a bluer sky; never had the moors seemed more magnificent nor the parsonage more inviting. Anne, Emily, and Papa welcomed me with glad exclamations and tears. The company of my kin brought me much more joy than the brilliant society I’d hoped to find when I’d gone to London. We eagerly shared the tales of our experiences.

  “But how were you able to tell Mr. Slade where to find me?” I asked. “And how did you happen to send the news by telegraph?”

  “It was Branwell’s doing,” Emily said with grudging admiration.

  When she explained, I could hardly believe that Branwell had outwitted the men who had imprisoned them in the cellar, obtained the vital information, and thought up the means to convey it. That my wretched brother had ultimately brought about Kuan’s downfall was amazing indeed. “Where is Branwell?” I said, eager to thank him.

  My father’s and sisters’ expressions grew somber. Papa said, “We don’t know.”

  Anne sighed. “Unfortunately, he has resumed his old ways.”

  Six days after my return, Branwell fainted while walking to the Black Bull Inn. The next day he was unable to get up from his bed, and his condition rapidly declined. We sent for Dr. Wheelright, who examined Branwell and declared that he was close to death. What a profound shock! Branwell’s health had worsened so gradually that none of us had noticed; he’d been threatening to die for so long that we had failed to take him seriously. Not until now did I learn he was suffering from consumption, the same disease that had taken Maria and Elizabeth.

  Branwell lay, his wasted frame shrunken to the size of a child’s, under the coverlet. His red, unkempt hair straggled around his gaunt face. His features were yellow and sunken, his thin, white lips shaking. While Anne, Emi
ly, and I wept around his bed, Papa knelt beside Branwell and clasped his hand.

  “Oh, Father, I am dying,” Branwell cried. “I have misspent my youth and utterly, miserably disgraced myself. In all my past life I have done none of the great things I intended.”

  “But you have,” I said. “You saved all our lives and proved yourself a hero.”

  Throughout that day and night, my sisters and I sat vigil with Branwell; Papa prayed for his soul. Gradually, Branwell came to repent of his vices. He appeared to forget the Robinson woman; indeed, he seemed unaware that he’d ever loved anyone but his family. Towards us he expressed a tender affection that gladdened, yet broke, our hearts. The next morning-Sunday, 24 September-we watched his life draw to an end. He grew calm and remained alert; to the last prayer which Papa offered up at his bedside, Branwell whispered, “Amen.” After a sudden, brief convulsion, he departed us in his thirty-first year.

  I felt as I had never felt before that there would be peace and forgiveness for him in Heaven. Every wrong Branwell had done, every pain he’d caused, vanished. I regretted that none but a few could know how brilliantly he’d risen to the last challenge of his life. I sank into a terrible state of grief, compounded by a delayed reaction to my harrowing experiences. Headache, bilious fever, and weakness kept me abed while Papa, Emily, and Anne made preparations for Branwell’s funeral.

  When it was done, our household regained harmony, even though a pall of sadness hung over it. Papa went about his business in the parish with his usual dedication. Anne seemed at peace while she did her chores. I believe her efforts in the investigation had satisfied her need for accomplishment. Emily scribbled industriously on what looked to be a new novel. It seemed that our adventures had helped her break through the mental barrier that prevented her from writing and inspired her creative force. I believe she is destined for greatness, for immortality.