Killigrew and the Golden Dragon

by Jonathan Lunn

  Another pilong ran to where Killigrew clung to the side. The lieutenant swung his legs over the bulwark and kicked the pilong in the chest. As the pilong staggered back, Killigrew landed on his feet and drew his cutlass in his right hand and a pepperbox in his left. He got off a couple of shots from his pepperbox; there was no need to aim, the pilongs were all around him. Then they closed in.

  If Killigrew had stopped to think about what he was doing, he would have realised how insane it was and panicked: a sure way of getting himself killed. He had seen that happen to other men, and it had come close to happening to him on more than one occasion. All you could do was fling yourself into the thick of it, unthinking, kill as many of them as you could as quickly as possible, and hope your shipmates were close behind you. The only advantage a man enjoyed at a moment like this was the fact that the enemy could be relied upon to be terrified. When one man with a gun faces a hundred men with guns, every one of the hundred thinks their opponent’s weapon is levelled at himself. The odds were on the side of the pilongs, but they would have been less than human not to be overawed by a man who flung himself, roaring wildly, into the teeth of certain death.

  Killigrew parried a sword blow with his cutlass, thrust the six muzzles of his pepperbox against a naked torso, and fired. He stabbed one man in the throat, shot another in the face, hacked and slashed again. Three more pilongs charged him. He shot one, hacked at the next and kicked the third in the crotch. There was a time and a place for gentlemanly fighting, and this was certainly not it.

  Then Molineaux and the others had joined him on the deck of the junk, and Hartcliffe and the men from the first cutter swarmed over the far bulwark. Within seconds the bluejackets outnumbered the pilongs. The Chinese would not surrender, though: even when they must have realised defeat was inevitable, they fought to the bitter end, well aware that if they were captured the only fate they could expect was execution. Killigrew had heard fellow officers – men who had fought alongside him in the Opium War seven years earlier, men who should have known better – denigrate the fighting capabilities of John Chinaman. Damned heathens, they said; no moral fibre. Killigrew knew that was hogwash: the Chinese might be badly led in war, and lack modern Western armaments, but they could be as savage and courageous as the best.

  He fought his way to where the halyards ran up the side of the mainmast to support the junk’s mainsail. He slashed through one rope, and then a pilong thrust a billhook at him. A sweep of Killigrew’s cutlass sliced the billhook from the shaft. The pilong was fast though, and strong: he slammed the shaft like a quarterstaff against Killigrew’s chest and sent him staggering. As the lieutenant charged back to meet him, the pilong reached for a pistol tucked into his girdle. Killigrew slashed with his cutlass. The pilong ducked, and laughed when the blade passed several inches above his head. Oblivious to the halyard which the cutlass had parted, he pulled out his pistol and levelled it at the lieutenant with a smirk of triumph.

  Killigrew backed away and glanced up. A descending shadow prompted the pilong to do likewise. A moment later the mainsail had peeled away from the mainmast to fold itself over Killigrew’s opponent and another knot of half a dozen pilongs in the waist. Bluejackets swarmed over the matting sail, bashing the shapes which struggled beneath with belaying pins and cutlass hilts until they lay still.

  The lieutenant looked around. There was no sign of the Indian woman, but he caught a glimpse of the lao-pan in the white tunic and crimson sash dashing through the portal which led into the cabin beneath the poop deck.

  Killigrew went after him. He dashed into the cabin and tripped over an extended foot. His cutlass skittered into a corner as he sprawled on his front. He reached for it, but a slippered foot came down on his wrist and pinned his right arm to the deck.

  He still had his pepperbox in his left hand. He shot the pilong under the jaw and blew his brains out. Footsteps sounded. Killigrew rolled on to his back as another pilong came at him, and shot him in the chest. Then he scrambled back into a corner to survey the cabin.

  The lao-pan was in the far corner, with the muzzle of a flintlock pistol pressed behind the ear of the Indian woman, held in front of him as a human shield. For now Killigrew concentrated on the man. He was tall and blue-eyed, hinting at European blood, although there was no other trace of it in his sallow features. Even hiding behind a woman, he had a self-assurance Killigrew had never seen in a Chinese before. The most powerful mandarins carried themselves with Confucian humility, even when addressing those they clearly regarded as inferior, such as the Western barbarians. But here Killigrew could see he was facing a man who would bow to no one, neither Queen Victoria nor the Daoguang Emperor in Peking.

  Killigrew pushed himself to his feet and levelled his pepperbox at the lao-pan’s face, visible over the woman’s right shoulder.

  ‘Drop your gun, or I’ll kill her,’ the lao-pan said in tolerably good English.

  Killigrew let the pepperbox fall to the floor. ‘Surrender. We’ve taken the ship; you’re not going anywhere.’

  ‘We shall see.’ The lao-pan gave the woman an almighty shove so that she fell into Killigrew’s arms, and snatched up his cutlass. ‘Barbarian fool! My pistol is empty!’

  The lao-pan was about to hack at Killigrew’s head when Molineaux came through the portal behind him and grabbed him by the wrist, staying the blow. The lao-pan whirled and punched the seaman in the stomach. Molineaux gasped and doubled up, but not before he had wrenched the cutlass from the lao-pan’s grip.

  The Chinese snatched up the pepperbox and backed away, covering both Killigrew and Molineaux.

  Killigrew relaxed and turned his attention to the woman. ‘Do you speak English?’ he asked her. ‘Are you all right?’ She merely nodded.

  ‘With all due respect, sir, this is hardly the time!’ protested Molineaux, with a jerk of his head at the lao-pan, who still clutched the pepperbox.

  Killigrew sat the woman on a chair and turned his attention back to the lao-pan. He started to walk across the cabin towards him and held out his hand. ‘My gun, if you please.’

  The lao-pan levelled the pepperbox at Killigrew’s head. ‘Stay back!’

  Killigrew continued to advance.

  ‘I warned you…’ The lao-pan pulled the trigger. The hammer fell on a spent percussion cap with a harmless click.

  ‘Did you think you were the only one who could bluff with an empty pistol?’ Killigrew demanded irritably.

  The lao-pan threw the pepperbox at his face, but Killigrew had been expecting it, and ducked. He straightened in time to see the lao-pan lunge for the doorway. Killigrew caught him round the waist in a flying tackle and drove him against the bulkhead. The lao-pan rammed an elbow into his cheek and squirmed free. Still holding the cutlass, Molineaux got to the door first to bar his path. The lao-pan's foot flashed out and connected with the seaman’s wrist. The cutlass flew from his grip.

  Then Hartcliffe appeared in the doorway. The lao-pan twisted away and snatched up the cutlass. ‘Barbarian fools! You think you can cage Zhai Jing-mu like a songbird?’ He backed towards one of the gun ports, his eyes flickering between Killigrew, Molineaux and Hartcliffe. He paid no attention to the Indian woman behind him, which was a mistake because she snatched up a decorated porcelain vase and smashed it over his head. The lao-pan’s eyes rolled up in his head and he measured his length on the deck with blood weeping from a scalp wound.

  The woman slumped back into the chair, trembling.

  ‘Are you all right, miss?’ Killigrew asked her. ‘Or is it ma’am?’

  ‘Miss,’ said the woman. ‘Miss Peri Dadabhoy.’ She stood up and bowed with her hands pressed palms together before her. Although a formal and thoroughly respectable garment among Indian women, the sari left a lot less to the imagination than the billowing gowns and blouses of Western women. Miss Dadabhoy was in her late teens or early twenties, with smooth skin the colour of café au lait, a straight nose, curly black hair, sensuous lips and dark brown, almond-shaped
eyes above high cheekbones. Killigrew would have liked to have taken in more, but it was ungentlemanly to stare, so he returned her bow.

  ‘Christopher Killigrew at your service, miss.’ He had heard the name ‘Dadabhoy’ somewhere before, although he could not place it. ‘And may I present Lord Hartcliffe? And not forgetting Able Seaman Molineaux, of course.’

  ‘My friends call me Wes, miss,’ said Molineaux.

  ‘Take care of our friend there, Molineaux,’ Killigrew said curtly, indicating Zhai Jing-mu, as Hartcliffe escorted Miss Dadabhoy out on deck. ‘We’ll take him to Hong Kong for trial.’

  Molineaux found some rope and trussed up Zhai Jing-mu with a scowl which said: Typical! The officers get to spoon with the blowers while the ratings get left to clear up the mess.

  Killigrew hesitated in the doorway. ‘Molineaux?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Well done.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ To judge from his truculent tone, Molineaux was unmollified.

  Killigrew could not blame him. ‘You know how to handle yourself in a scrimmage, I’ll say that for you.’

  Molineaux finally grinned. ‘Maybe I didn’t go to school, sir, but even a misspent youth provides an education of sorts. What about you, sir? Don’t tell me they taught you the old “Ringsend uppercut” at Eton.’

  ‘I never went to school either, Molineaux, although unlike you I had the benefit of a private tutor. Two private tutors, if you include Jory Spargo.’

  ‘Jory Spargo, sir?’

  ‘A seaman on board my first ship. He taught me a few moves which might be looked down upon in polite company, but which have saved my life on more than one occasion. Well, be about your duties. We both have plenty of work to do.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  Killigrew followed Hartcliffe and Miss Dadabhoy out on deck. The mess there was even worse, and Killigrew steered the young woman away so that she did not have to look at the carnage, leaving Hartcliffe – who was never at ease with the opposite sex – to supervise the rounding up of the other prisoners. None of the pilongs had surrendered: those that had been taken alive had been knocked unconscious, like their captain.

  Some of the Tisiphones on deck had lowered the anchor and hauled down the foresail, bringing the junk to a halt barely a cable’s length from where the breakers boomed over the reefs. The Tisiphone had pulled alongside and the first cutter was already being hauled back into its davits.

  ‘We need a bosun’s chair over here!’ Killigrew called across to one of the boatswain’s mates, and then turned back to Miss Dadabhoy. ‘Are you injured in any way, miss? Do you require medical attention?’

  She shook her head. ‘There is no need for you to concern yourself on that account, Mr Killigrew. I was not subjected to “a fate worse than death”.’ She was almost mocking, a smile of amusement playing impishly on her lips. Killigrew found himself warming to her at once: she made a refreshing change from the simpering ninnies he usually met.

  ‘We’ll get you aboard the Tisiphone, you can have a cabin to yourself, some clean clothes, a brush and scrub up, whatever you require. We’re headed for Hong Kong. You have family there?’

  She nodded. ‘My father.’

  Killigrew had been trying to think of someone with the surname

  ‘Dadabhoy’; now he remembered that Parsis did not have family names, but patronymics, taking their fathers’ forenames as surnames.

  ‘Not Sir Dadabhoy Framjee?’ he guessed.

  ‘You’ve heard of him?’

  ‘Hasn’t everyone in these parts?’ Framjee was the foremost of the Parsi merchants engaged in the opium trade, a wealthy philanthropist so well liked he was one of the first Indians to be honoured with a knighthood. The number of schools, colleges, hospitals, Zarathustrian fire-temples, and other charitable concerns endowed by him bore testament to his generosity.

  Killigrew had often heard the Parsis described as the Jews of India, succeeding in trade by dint of hard work and a reputation for honesty and integrity. The Parsis had come from Persia in the tenth century and settled in Gujerat in western India. Nowadays they spoke Gujerati, although they continued to pray in Persian. They were Zarathustrians, of the oldest monotheistic religion in the world, and the supposed similarity of their religion to Christianity, their willingness to adopt Western manners, and – Killigrew was ashamed as a European to admit it – the lightness of their skins had made them more acceptable to the British Raj, enabling them to thrive in the Bombay business community.

  The son of a weaver, Dadabhoy Framjee had started out in life as a bottle-washer; half a century later, he was one of the richest men in the world, with agencies in India, China, Egypt and England, and a fleet of cargo ships. He had made his first fortune by the time he was twenty-three, lost it all when the Great Fire of Bombay had reduced his home to ashes, and worked hard to build an even larger one. But he had never forgotten his roots or his heritage. The ancient creed of Zarathustrianism demanded that the Parsis put back into the community what they had earned from it, and there could be no denying that Framjee’s generosity was in proportion to his wealth.

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir…’ It was Petty Officer Ågård, with a cut on his temple.

  Killigrew realised he had been neglecting his duties to talk to the woman. Understandable, but unforgivable too. ‘You’ll have to excuse me, miss,’ he told her, and turned to the petty officer. ‘Better get back aboard the Tisiphone and get that looked at, Mr Ågård.’

  ‘Hmm?’ The petty officer raised a hand to the cut and looked at the blood. ‘Oh, that. It’s not deep, sir. I’m not hurt as bad as some of the others.’

  ‘How many dead?’

  ‘Six, all told, sir. I reckon we got off lightly.’ Ågård spoke briskly, in a matter-of-fact tone, his voice devoid of any accusation. The dead men had given their lives in a noble cause, and Miss Dadabhoy was alive and safe thanks to them. But part of Killigrew could not help wondering if it was a fair exchange: six good men for one woman. If his own life had been lost, he wondered if his ghost would have had the good grace to look down from above – or up from below – and still say he had only done his duty. He told himself they were dead, and blaming himself would not bring them back. Tomorrow they would be buried at sea, and their few personal effects auctioned before the mast at inflated prices, to raise money for any wives and children waiting for them back in Britain.

  ‘Very well, Mr Ågård,’ Killigrew said as Molineaux emerged from the cabin, pushing the now conscious lao-pan before him. ‘Take the second cutter and return to the Tisiphone.'

  ‘What do you want me to do with this one, sir?’ asked Molineaux.

  ‘I’ll take him.’ Killigrew grasped the lao-pan firmly by the arm. ‘I want you to see Miss Dadabhoy safely aboard the Tisiphone, Molineaux, then help Dando with the wounded.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  The prisoners were put in irons in the sloop’s lee waist with an armed guard of marines over them while the wounded went down to the sick berth for the surgeon, assistant surgeon and the sick berth attendant to tend to. It was traditional for the wounded to be treated according to the order in which they reached the sick berth, regardless of their rank, although those with minor cuts and sprains held back so that those in more urgent need of attention would be treated first.

  Killigrew and Hartcliffe reported to Robertson on the Tisiphone’s quarterdeck.

  ‘I suppose you expect me to congratulate you both, eh?’ sniffed the commander. ‘Damned young fools. Well, I’m as much to blame as you are. I gave you permission, after all. But don’t think I’m going to thank you for doing no more than your duty. If you’d done any less, on the other hand… well, then I’d have something to say to you, of that you may be sure!’

  ‘I don’t feel like being congratulated, sir,’ said Killigrew. ‘We lost six men, and another dozen wounded.’

  ‘Seven,’ Robertson corrected him. ‘Private Evans was careless enough to get in the way of a stray gingall
ball.’

  Losing any man was bad enough, but Evans had been detailed to act as Killigrew’s ‘servant’ in the wardroom, keeping his glass replenished during dinner, doing his laundry, polishing his boots and bringing him a cup of tea every morning. When a man who did all that was killed, the loss became more personal.

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear that, sir,’ Killigrew said with feeling. The one consolation was that he knew Evans had been a bachelor, without a wife or child, but he had been popular amongst the crew – no easy feat for a marine – and he would be missed by his friends.

  ‘I believe you are,’ Robertson allowed grudgingly. ‘But don’t think that means I’m giving you permission to mope around the rest of the way to Hong Kong. You said it yourself: the men who died were volunteers who knew the risks. The Indian woman was an innocent who got caught up in this business through no choice of her own. It was a fair exchange. And if anyone should take the blame, it should be me. I’m captain of this vessel, which means I take full responsibility for anything that happens under my command. And with young rapscallions like you on my hands, that’s a heavier burden than you can possibly imagine. Where is the woman, anyway?’

  Killigrew noticed Molineaux loitering at the edge of the quarter-deck and remembered that he had last seen Miss Dadabhoy in his care. ‘Molineaux?’

  ‘I took the liberty of putting the blower in the captain’s cabin, sir.’

  ‘The what?’ demanded Robertson, only half turning towards him.

  ‘The lady, sir. Miss Dadabhoy, I mean.’

  ‘I’ll thank you not to use slang expressions when you address an officer, Molineaux. You’re not in your London rookery now. So, you took the liberty of putting her in my cabin, did you? That’s quite a liberty, I must say. You might have asked me first. Still, I don’t see where else we can put her. That means I shall have to move into your cabin, First. You can share a cabin with Mr Killigrew here. I take it Miss Dadabhoy is having all her feminine wants attended to?’

  Robertson’s misogyny was evident in the sneering way he said the word ‘feminine’. As far as he was concerned, women had no function other than to satisfy a man’s sexual urges, and that was that. Since ladies of genteel families were generally unavailable for such assignations, he had even less use for them.