Killigrew and the Golden Dragon

by Jonathan Lunn

  ‘I never thought you would choose a penniless British naval officer!’

  ‘Am I a chattel, to be bought and sold like a slave girl?’

  ‘I only want what is best for you, my child. That is all I have ever wanted for you.’

  ‘Do you not think I am able to judge what is best for me?’

  ‘Are you not curious to know what he said?’

  She turned back to face him.

  ‘He tore the cheque up and threw it back at me.’

  She stared at him, not sure if she had heard him right. ‘He did that?’ Framjee nodded. ‘A cheque for five thousand pounds, and he tore it up without hesitation. When I offered to write him another, made out to any amount he cared to name, he still refused. He must love you very much, my child.’

  She saw down beside him and clasped his hands. ‘And I love him, Father.’

  ‘If you married him, you would be an outcast from your own people.’

  ‘And from you, Father?’

  ‘No, my child. You will always be my daughter. But I cannot have my daughter married to a penniless naval officer, so… I fear your dowry will have to be very generous indeed.’

  She hugged him. ‘Oh, Father!’

  ‘Be still, my child! He has not yet asked for your hand!’

  ‘Oh, but he will if I tell him we have your blessing.’

  ‘I think if Mr Killigrew has it in his mind to many you, he will do so with or without my blessing.’ Framjee chuckled. ‘Just as I married your mother. But I do not think it would be a good idea to tell him that I will pay any dowry. If he loves you he will need no encouragement, and he would not want people to think he had married you for money.’

  ‘He’ll ask, Father. I know he will!’

  * * *

  ‘What was all that about?’ Strachan asked Killigrew as they ambled down Caine Road towards the top of Ladder Street. ‘No, wait, let me guess: he was trying to buy you off, wasn’t he?’

  ‘If he was, that’s between Sir Dadabhoy and myself.’

  ‘I’ll bet he was. How much did he offer you?’

  ‘None of your damned business.’

  ‘She’s a braw lassie,’ Strachan admitted. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, Killigrew, but what…?’

  ‘If you’re going to lecture me, please don’t,’ said Killigrew. ‘I had enough of that tonight from Mrs Bannatyne and Sir Dadabhoy.’

  ‘Ah. I noticed our hostess looked a little flushed when the two of you came in to dinner tonight. I wasn’t sure if you’d been rowing or spooning with her.’

  ‘I never get involved with married women.’

  ‘More fool you. She deserves better than that smug bastard Bannatyne… Do you think she really sculpted that bust of Genghis Khan?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s damned good, that’s why. As good as any modern sculpture I’ve ever seen, and better than most. You know, I rather liked her.’

  ‘You want to bed her, you mean.’

  ‘Please, Killigrew. Just this once could you credit me with having finer feelings?’

  They walked down Ladder Street in silence. ‘I’m thinking of resigning my commission,’ Killigrew suddenly announced.

  Strachan stopped and turned to stare at him. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I said: I’m thinking of resigning my commission.’

  ‘You? Leave the navy? That’ll be the day!’

  ‘Why not? My Uncle William’s always pressing me to work for his company in the City. I’d get paid six times what I’m earning at the moment.’

  ‘And you’d die of boredom within a week. How long have I known you, Killigrew? Two years? The navy’s your life. You’re never happier than when you’re chasing slavers or crossing swords with pirates. You think you’d get the same kind of satisfaction from some sinecure in the City?’

  ‘A City job would leave me more time for other pursuits. Charitable works. Politics, perhaps. I’m always mocking politicians for being corrupt; perhaps it’s time I stood for office myself, introduced a bit of decency into the House of Commons.’

  ‘You wouldn’t last five minutes in Parliament. What, do you want to become everything you despise? Someone like Blase Bannatyne and Sir George Grafton?’

  ‘I’m more worried I’ll become everything I despise if I stay in the service much longer, Strachan. I tell myself I fight the slavers and the pirates because it’s the right thing to do; but is it? I kill them as ruthlessly as they kill their victims. Am I really any better than them?’

  ‘Yes, you are, and you damned well know it.’ Strachan narrowed his eyes shrewdly. ‘This isn’t about pirates and slavers, is it? This is about Miss Dadabhoy.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, I’m sure.’

  ‘You’re going to ask her to marry you, aren’t you? That’s why you want to leave the service: you don’t want her to live the life of a naval officer’s wife.’

  Killigrew sighed and thrust his hands into his pockets. ‘If she marries me, she’ll no longer be accepted as a Parsi. If she’s prepared to make that kind of sacrifice, isn’t it fair that I make a sacrifice in turn?’

  ‘She’s a lovely girl, Killigrew. Damn me, I’m envious. But have you really considered what you’d be giving up? I mean, really considered?’ Before Killigrew could reply, a shot sounded nearby. ‘That was a firecracker, wasn’t it?’ Strachan said nervously. ‘It’s the Chinese New Year about now, isn’t it? Please tell me that was a firecracker.’

  ‘There was no firecracker.’

  ‘I was afraid you were going to say that. Maybe it would be best if we didn’t get involved…’

  ‘It sounded as if it came from the direction of the gaol. You run to the barracks and raise the alarm.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Strachan said with relief. He took a few hurried steps down Hollywood Road, and then stopped and turned back. ‘Killigrew? You’re not going to do anything… rash… are you?’

  ‘You know me, Strachan.’

  ‘In other words, “yes”.’ The assistant surgeon sighed and set off for the barracks at a sprint.

  Killigrew strode towards the gaol. He was halfway there when another muffled shot sounded somewhere up ahead. He broke into a run and a moment later there came a third shot.

  He rounded the next corner and saw the gaol immediately ahead of him, its barred windows a blaze of light, the door wide open. The smell of gunsmoke was heavy on the air, and he could smell something else: something sulphurous.

  Conscious that the only weapon he had was his dress-sword, he drew it from its scabbard and dashed across the street to press himself up against the wall by the door. He listened for a moment. Inside, all was silent. He peered through the door and jerked his head back quickly, but in that split second he had seen enough to reassure him that no one had a gun lined up on the door. He took a deep breath and dashed through, turning as soon as he was inside to make sure that no one was lurking in wait just inside.

  There was no one in sight. He took a step closer to the counter and felt something crunch under his foot. Glancing down he saw that the floor was covered in pottery shards: stink-pots.

  It was a favourite trick of the pilongs to make grenades by filling small earthenware pots with a combustible mixture of brimstone, gunpowder, nitre, bitumen, rosin and other noxious substances. A fuse was inserted in the neck and lit before the stink-pot was thrown on to the deck of another vessel. The explosion was usually sufficient to daze and choke everyone within ten yards for a few seconds, and if enough stink-pots were thrown it gave the pilongs time to board the vessel unopposed. Whoever had attacked the gaol had simply used the same tactic on land.

  Killigrew leaned over the counter and craned his head to look through the doorway behind. There was no one in the next room, but he spotted a puddle of blood on the floor beneath him.

  Sword in hand, he vaulted over the counter. The Sikh constable whose body had been shoved under the counter had been all but decapitated by a sword-stroke.

/>   His heart pounding, Killigrew slipped into the next room and found two more constables, as savagely murdered as the first had been. He was about to go back and wait outside for Strachan to return with reinforcements when he heard a muffled sound from the door leading to the back of the building. Still gripping his sword, he took another deep breath and dived through.

  The Triad waited for him with a crossbow lined up on the doorway from the far end of the corridor. Killigrew froze, knowing he could not hope to kill the man with a sword at that distance. He braced himself for the shot – at that range there was a good chance the pilong might miss.

  A moment later something connected with the back of his neck. He dropped the sword and sank to his knees. Another blow struck him on the back of the head, and the last thing he saw before the cobwebs of oblivion wrapped him in their coils was the floor rushing up to meet him.

  Chapter 7

  Wu-Yi

  The gig bumped against the Tisiphone’s side, and Robertson, Hartcliffe, Westlake, Vellacott and Muir climbed up the side-ladder to the entry port. At the top, Robertson turned to address the coxswain. ‘You’d better row back to the wharf and wait for Killigrew and Strachan, Mr Ågård.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir. All right, lads, you heard him. Shove off and give way together.’

  There were three men in the gig in addition to Ågård: Molineaux, Dando and O’Connor. They pulled for the wharf and Molineaux jumped on to the stone steps cut in the quayside to tie the gig’s painter to an iron ring.

  O’Connor produced his pipe and lit it. ‘All right then, Wes, what’s all this I hear about you going to the rescue of some yellow-belly lass?’

  ‘You know me, Joe. Never could resist going to the aid of a damsel in distress.’

  ‘Is it true what they’m be saying?’ asked Dando.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About Chinese girls being… different… to English lasses.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, you know how English lasses be… rigged fore and aft… down below? Be it true that Chinese girls be rigged athwartships?’

  ‘Rigged athwartships… Jem, where the hell do you come up with this hogwash?’

  ‘Well? Be it true? Or didn’t you find out?’

  ‘That ain’t the kind of question a gentleman answers.’

  ‘Air, but you bain’t be no gentleman.’

  ‘What the hell’s going on over there?’ asked Ågård suddenly. He was narrowing his eyes to where a group of figures had just emerged from a side-street and were dashing through the darkness to where a smug boat was tied up at the next wharf. Molineaux heard voices calling out in Cantonese.

  ‘Trouble,’ he said, well aware that the Chinese were not allowed to wander the streets of Victoria after curfew without a light and a pass from their employer.

  ‘I reckon we’d best stay here and wait for Tom Tidley and the assistant sawbones,’ O’Connor said nervously.

  ‘You can wait here,’ said Molineaux. ‘I’m going to investigate.’ He hurried across the waterfront followed by Ågård, Dando and a reluctant O’Connor. ‘Hey!’ he called out as they drew near. ‘Anyone here speakee English?’

  The dozen or so shadowy figures on the wharf froze. Out of the corner of his eye, Molineaux saw something fizzle on the gunwale of the smug boat. ‘Swivel!’ he yelled.

  The four seamen threw themselves to the ground a moment before the swivel gun boomed. Molineaux felt something sting his left buttock, but he was on his feet a moment later. The Chinese on the dock made a dash for the gangplank leading down to the smug boat’s deck, but Molineaux caught one around the waist in a flying tackle and brought him down. The two of them rolled over and over, until Molineaux knocked his opponent unconscious with a punch to the jaw.

  He looked up. The other three seamen were getting stuck in. Molineaux recognised Zhai Jing-mu amongst the men hurrying for the boat as the mooring ropes were cast off. He went after him and got halfway down the gangplank before one of the Triads came up to meet him: a young, rather effeminate-looking Chinese. Like most of his race, he was not tall, and he was less muscular than many of his compatriots. This one looked as though a slight breeze might be enough to blow him down.

  Molineaux reached behind him and pulled his Bowie knife from a sheath he wore in the small of his back. ‘Out of my way!’

  ‘You go to hell!’ the Chinese snapped back. He jumped into the air. One foot connected with Molineaux’s wrist, dashing the Bowie knife from his grip, while the other smashed into his jaw. He staggered and had to seize the hand-rope to stop himself from falling in the water.

  The Chinese seized his advantage and charged forwards, delivering a succession of rib-jarring blows to his chest. Molineaux managed to land a lucky punch on the Chinese’s jaw. The pilong staggered back and stepped off the gangplank. Molineaux glanced down and saw the Chinese catch hold of the side of the gangplank, swinging underneath it as nimbly as an acrobat. As Molineaux bent over to try to see where he had gone, the Chinese’s feet connected with his buttocks. The seaman was knocked forwards and plunged headfirst into the water.

  When he surfaced he saw the gangplank being taken on board while the oars were lowered from the smug boat’s sides. One of them nearly brained him. He grabbed hold of it in a futile attempt to impede the boat’s progress. A figure appeared at the gunwale above him and a moment later a pistol cracked with a flash and a bullet kicked up a spurt of water only inches from where Molineaux trod water. He relinquished his hold on the oar and ducked beneath the waves.

  By the time he had surfaced the smug boat was already fifty yards away, the oarsmen pulling strongly for the harbour mouth. Molineaux punched the water in frustration and swam back to the dock where Ågård helped him out. ‘You all right, Wes?’

  ‘I got shot in the bum, kicked in the nut and knocked in the drink,’ snarled Molineaux. ‘Do I look oh-kay to you?’

  Ågård grinned. ‘You’ll survive.’

  Molineaux reached inside his trousers to explore his stinging buttock gingerly. There was no blood: the pellet which had hit him must have ricocheted off the quayside first. He glanced about the waterfront. Dando was nursing a cut on his arm while O’Connor tied up the pilong Molineaux had knocked out. ‘Well, at least we got one of them,’ said Ågård.

  Molineaux bent to retrieve his Bowie knife, which had fallen on the quayside. ‘But we let Zhai Jing-mu get away.’

  * * *

  The first indication Killigrew had that he was still alive was the pain. It coursed through the very fibre of his being, through every limb and nerve-ending, but it was concentrated in a pounding ache in the back of his skull.

  He lay still for a moment, listening, but heard nothing. Opening an eye fractionally, he saw only the floor of the corridor. His sword lay a foot away. He snatched it up and jumped to his feet, but there was no one else in sight. Then the intensified throbbing in his skull forced him to slump to the floor once more, his back to the wall. Feeling sick and woozy, he checked his fob watch: a quarter past midnight. He could not have been unconscious for more than a couple of minutes, but it had been enough time for the Triads to make good their escape.

  He reached inside his coat, produced a cheroot and lit it. The rich taste of the tobacco helped to stimulate him enough to find the strength to rise to his feet.

  ‘Who’s there?’ a voice called from one of the offices leading off the corridor.

  ‘Lieutenant Killigrew, HMS Tisiphone.’

  ‘You! What the deuce are you doing here?’

  Killigrew recognised Cargill’s voice. He staggered into the office and found the assistant superintendent braced behind a cabinet with a single-shot percussion pistol held in both hands.

  ‘I was on my way back from the ball at Bannatyne’s when I heard shooting. Thought I’d better come and investigate.’

  ‘I’m glad you did. You must’ve frightened them off.’

  ‘Zhai Jing-mu?’

  ‘Let’s check, shall we?’ Carg
ill produced a bunch of keys and led the way downstairs to the cells. Killigrew noticed that the policeman was limping, bleeding from a wound in his leg.

  ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘Hmm?’ Cargill glanced down at his leg. ‘Oh, that’s nothing. Just a scratch.’

  Still feeling groggy, Killigrew rubbed the back of his head. ‘They knocked me out. Why the devil didn’t they kill me when they had the chance?’

  They stepped into the lock-up. The cells were all empty. ‘Because they got what they came for?’ Cargill suggested bitterly.

  ‘The man I saw wore the same clothes as those Triads who attacked me in the joss house,’ said Killigrew.

  Cargill nodded. ‘Looks like you were right, Killigrew. The Triads and the pilongs are working hand in glove. I should have listened to you.’

  ‘Would it have made any difference?’

  ‘Probably not,’ Cargill admitted ruefully, and then slammed his fist against the stone wall. ‘Damn it to blazes! How could 1 have let this happen?’

  Killigrew remembered the smug boat he had seen from the terrace of Bannatyne’s house. ‘Maybe he hasn’t got away yet. I saw a smug boat in the harbour. That must be how they’re planning to get away from Hong Kong, while we’re still too stunned to do anything about it.’

  ‘You’re right, by George!’ Cargill led the way back upstairs. They dashed out of the gaol and a moment later a musket-shot sounded. Killigrew felt the ball whip-crack through the air close to his head and flung himself down on the ground.

  ‘Hold your fire, damn your eyes!’ shouted someone. ‘They’re English!’

  Killigrew raised his head and saw a squad of a dozen sepoys with Lieutenant Dwyer and Strachan. He pushed himself to his feet and helped Cargill up after him.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Dwyer.

  ‘Gaolbreak,’ said Killigrew. ‘We think they’re heading for the harbour.’

  ‘Come on, then.’

  By the time they reached the waterfront the smug boat had long gone. The only figure on the quayside was Molineaux, seated on a low shape. The seaman stood up and put one foot on the shape. Killigrew recognised it as a Triad.