Killigrew and the Golden Dragon

by Jonathan Lunn

  Molineaux climbed back the way he had come on board, shinning down the anchor chain until he was up to his neck in water. He struck out for the shore. His limbs protested agonisingly after the first few strokes: cramp. Hardly surprising: he had been lying more or less motionless on the roof of the deck house for the best part of five hours. Resisting the urge to panic, he floated on his back until the initial pain had worn off and he was able to strike out once more for the shore, using a less energetic stroke this time.

  He had gone two hundred yards before anyone noticed him. He heard shouts behind him. A moment later the first musket balls whistled towards him, but by then he was beyond effective range for sharpshooting. By the time he waded up the shingle beach out of the surf he walked with insouciant slowness to show his contempt. As a final act of defiance, he dropped his trousers and bent over to let them get a good look at what he thought of their marksmanship. Between his own legs he could see the opium hulk upside down, one of the gun-ports amidships opening as they ran out a thirty-two-pounder long gun…

  Molineaux swore, hitched up his trousers and broke into a run as the gun boomed. The shot screeched through the air towards him with a sound like canvas tearing. He flung himself flat on the ground as the shot burst over the beach. Pellets of canister showered down on the shingle close by. He quickly picked himself up and ran further uphill before they had a chance to reload.

  When he reached the crest of the spine of hills that ran the length of the island he glanced back. On the beach below a long boat had landed and men armed with muskets swarmed ashore. To the east, the sun was just peeping over the horizon. Molineaux turned and ran back to where he had left Mei-rong with the yolo.

  It was twenty minutes after dawn before he reached the cove where he had left her. She was still waiting for him when he stumbled out of the trees on to the shingle. ‘Cast off!’ he called to her, breaking into a sprint for the last stretch.

  ‘Where Missee Killigrew?’ she demanded.

  ‘He’s not coming. Get pushing, Mei-rong, or else we’ll have unwelcome guests.’

  They put their shoulders to the boat and shoved it back into the water. At last it floated clear and Molineaux collapsed in the bottom while Mei-rong stood on the stern to pole the boat out through the breakers with her sculling oar. ‘Missee Killigrew, him spilum?’

  ‘Killigrew dead? Don’t be daft. He’s got the devil’s own luck, that one.’ Molineaux hoped it was true.

  The yolo was a cable’s length from the shore by the time the men from the opium hulk appeared behind them. They fired a desultory volley from their muskets but none of the shots even came close.

  ‘You makee someone plenty angry,’ said Mei-rong.

  Molineaux grinned and glanced ahead. They could see the peaks of Hong Kong island only six miles away.

  He pondered what he had overheard. He would have precious little to tell Commander Robertson when he got back to the Tisiphone: that Killigrew had been captured and was being taken to Zhai Jing-mu’s lair – somewhere between Hong Kong and Swatow from the sound of it – but that only narrowed it down to a hundred and fifty-odd miles of coastline, not counting every creek and inlet. It was hardly calculated to divert Robertson’s rage at Killigrew’s escape.

  Bannatyne and Zhai Jing-mu were planning something, that much was obvious. But what? Molineaux had a feeling it would not be anything good. He hoped Killigrew would find out and then manage to get away and back to Victoria in time to reveal all. But that was too much to hope for, even from a man like Killigrew. Molineaux wished he had knocked Ultzmann out when he had had the chance and rescued the lieutenant. This time Killigrew had bitten off more than he could chew.

  They had covered almost half the distance, and Green Island, off the westernmost tip of Hong Kong, was just coming into view, when Molineaux spotted a plume of smoke in the direction of Cap-sing-mun Passage. After a few minutes the base of the plume was revealed as a steamer headed for Victoria Harbour.

  ‘Maybe we catchee tow, catchee Hong Kong,’ said Mei-rong.

  ‘Maybe,’ Molineaux agreed dubiously.

  To his surprise the paddle-wheeler altered direction, a few points to starboard, so that it was coming towards them.

  The steamer ploughed through the waves, a bone in her teeth where the foam churned at the foot of her stern. Molineaux expected her to slow or turn when it came within a cable’s length, but she did no such thing: she just kept on coming.

  ‘Maybe him no see we,’ said Mei-rong, sculling the yolo out of the steamer’s path.

  The steamer changed direction again to follow. It was less than fifty yards away now, and bore down relentlessly on the flimsy boat. The white tiger figurehead seemed to pounce at them.

  ‘She’s seen us, all right!’ Molineaux jumped up from where he sat and lunged across the stern. He caught Mei-rong around the waist and the two of them hit the water together. He was still towing her clear when the steamer’s prow ripped through the boat amidships. There was a great splintering crash which momentarily drowned out the plashing of the paddle-wheels. The bow wave lifted Molineaux up and he was still trying to get his bearings when he saw the steamer’s starboard paddle-wheel bearing down on him. He tried to swim out of the way but once again cramp paralysed his limbs. He stared helplessly as the paddles filled his vision, each one slapping down against the water viciously, closer, closer…

  A strong hand caught him underneath the chin and pulled him clear with only inches to spare. Even so the backwash almost sucked him under, but the same hand grabbed a fistful of his hair and dragged him back to the surface. Mei-rong, God bless her. Like any Tanka girl, she could swim like a fish.

  ‘You oh-kay?’ she asked him.

  Coughing and spluttering, it was all he could do to nod. As the stern of the White Tiger passed them, he saw Shen standing on the rail, glaring down at them malevolently. Molineaux expected the steamer to turn and try to run them down again, but she just altered course slightly and continued on her way. Probably Shen did not think they would be able to swim the last three miles to Hong Kong.

  If Molineaux had been alone then the comprador would have been right. But the tireless Mei-rong had enough strength for both of them. She stayed with him the whole way, urging him on when he had the strength to swim, towing him behind her when his limbs finally gave out. At one point he felt his mouth fill with water and he thought he was drowning – he was so far gone he was not sure that he cared – but the next thing he knew she was dragging him on to the beach of Belcher Bay. Then she collapsed on the shingle beside him and they both lay there gasping for breath while the midday sun warmed their bodies.

  Molineaux had no idea how long he lay there, but after a while Mei-rong gained strength sufficiently to start complaining in a torrent of Cantonese. He did not understand a word of it, but it did not sound like the kind of language polite young ladies used. Realising her mother tongue was wasted on him, she switched back to pidgin English.

  ‘Bloody bastard barbarian! My bloody takee them to yamen! No yolo, no home, no cash; no cash, no rice! My starvum! Mei-feng alla time warnee my ’bout bloody bastard barbarian, she tellee me no mixee fan kwae. What for my no listenee?’

  ‘You can take them to the yamen, all right,’ gasped Molineaux. ‘They deliberately tried to murder us!’

  ‘You takee murder charge to Hella, you bloody bastard barbarian devil-slave! My sue him for losum plenty cash!’

  * * *

  ‘Bring him up on deck,’ ordered Ultzmann. Two pilongs – dressed in the same black pyjamy suits and crimson turbans as the Triads who had attacked Killigrew on both of his visits to the joss house on Hollywood Road – seized him and hoisted him to his feet. ‘Watch him,’ warned Ultzmann. ‘He may be pretending to be more badly injured than he really is, to lull us into a false sense of security.’

  Killigrew feigned nothing. The Triads on the smug boat had amused themselves on the voyage by beating him, and now he could barely stand. Nevertheless, as he wa
s dragged on deck he tried to observe as much as possible. If by some miracle he was able to escape, he would do so carrying vital intelligence which would serve the Royal Navy well when it came here to destroy Zhai Jing-mu’s fleet.

  For there could be no doubt he had finally tracked the pirate to his lair. He counted about three dozen junks in the harbour, most of them carrying nine guns in each broadside. The largest – Zhai Jing-mu’s flagship, to judge from the display of steamers and black and red flags – had forty-two guns in total. All in all it was a formidable force. But there was no sign of the Golden Dragon.

  Killigrew had been kept below deck during the voyage from Cap-sing-mun, but he guessed they could be no more than twenty or thirty miles east of Hong Kong. So close to the seat of British naval power in the South China Seas, yet perfectly safe thanks to their secluded location in an arm of the bay hidden from the open sea.

  The smug boat moored against the jetty and while the crew started to unload the cargo of opium, a boat was sent to the flagship to inform Zhai Jing-mu of the arrival of their special guest.

  Ultzmann took Killigrew ashore. Even though the lieutenant had both his hands tied behind his back, Ultzmann did not take his pepperbox off him for a moment. The two Triads threw Killigrew to the ground outside one of the huts in the village.

  Killigrew watched as the boat from the jetty reached Zhai Jing-mu’s flagship. A moment later he recognised Zhai himself, resplendent in his white clothes and crimson sash, climb down into the boat.

  He turned to Ultzmann. ‘I thought the Triads wanted to overthrow the Ch’ing Dynasty because they allowed us barbarians to smuggle opium into their country?’ he said thickly. ‘And yet here they are, helping them to do it!’

  ‘Regrettable but necessary,’ said Ultzmann. ‘The Brotherhood of Heaven, Earth and Man must have money to buy arms before it can overthrow the Ch’ing Dynasty. Smuggling opium is the quickest way to make that money.’

  ‘Who’s going to sell them those arms? Bannatyne, I suppose?’

  Ultzmann chuckled. ‘Oh, I think you’ll find the Triads have a far greater role for us Westerners in the overthrow of the Ch’ing Dynasty than you can ever imagine, Herr Killigrew. And when the Ming Dynasty is restored, this whole country will be made strong enough to resist the bullying tactics of the British. No longer will China be crushed and humiliated by your Royal Navy. With modern shell guns and steam-powered ships, China will be able to defend herself.’

  ‘You think Bannatyne cares about their revolution? He’s only interested in making money. You can’t believe his promises. It was men like him who urged the British government to go to war with China in the first place, so he could continue to import opium. The last thing he wants is to see China strong enough to defend herself. Even he’s not stupid enough to equip Chinese with Western arms. He wouldn’t do it for all the tea in China.’

  Scrunching up the shingle beach from where the boat had landed, Zhai Jing-mu grinned. He had a crimson eye patch now to match his sash. ‘That is where you are wrong, Killigrew. All the tea in China is precisely what he is doing it for.’

  Killigrew stared at him, and then nodded. ‘A total monopoly of the tea trade?’ That would make Bannatyne the richest man in the whole world; and the most powerful.

  Zhai lifted up his eye patch and thrust his face close to Killigrew’s. The socket was empty, just an ugly mess of scar tissue. ‘Take a good look at your handiwork, fan kwae. This was your doing!’

  ‘My heart bleeds for you,’ sneered Killigrew.

  Zhai kicked him savagely. ‘Mock now, while you still can, barbarian. Soon you will be begging me for mercy.’ He turned to one of the Triads. ‘Bring out a table. Get some coals burning in a brazier and heat up some irons until they are red-hot.’ He turned back to Killigrew. ‘You think that kick I gave you just now hurt? You do not know the meaning of pain. But you will soon, I assure you.’

  Chapter 16

  The Mœander

  ‘You think we don’t know what it is that you and the tai-pan are up to?’ Killigrew asked Zhai Jing-mu. ‘You’re planning to provoke another war between Britain and China.’ He was spread-eagled on a table while four pilongs held him down, one at each wrist and ankle. Ultzmann watched while Zhai Jing-mu turned the irons in the brazier. They were already starting to glow red-hot.

  ‘You’re insane,’ said Killigrew. ‘Can’t you see? The Chinese can’t win, not against steamships and shell guns. You know as well as Bannatyne that if there is a second war, the British won’t hold back the way they did in forty-two. British public opinion will demand that this time the Chinese be taught a lesson. What on earth can you hope to achieve by it? Such a war would be utterly ruinous for China…’

  Zhai Jing-mu took an iron from the fire and held it up to his single eye to examine its glowing tip. He frowned, and returned it to the fire. ‘Precisely so, Mr Killigrew.’

  ‘But of course…’ Killigrew could have cursed himself for not realising it sooner. ‘That’s exactly what you want, isn’t it? Another war with the barbarians will be the downfall of the Ch’ing Dynasty. The Manchu administration in Peking will topple, and the Triads will be ready to seize government.’

  ‘A fascinating theory, Mr Killigrew,’ said Zhai. ‘But of little use to you now. Tomorrow, at the hour of the pig, the first shot in our little war will sound out, heralding a new era in Chinese history. But you, my friend, will not even live to hear that opening shot.’

  ‘You’re off your head. You think the British will fight a war to put you in power in Peking?’

  ‘Why not? When my fleets, and my contacts with the Triads, will have helped them to defeat the hated Manchus? You know as well as I do that the British government has no interest in controlling China directly. Much better to install an administration friendly to British trade, which will open more ports to the barbarians.’

  ‘On the condition that only Bannatyne’s ships are allowed to deal in tea and opium. And what do you think your friends the Triads will have to say, when they discover that all along you’ve been planning to help the very barbarians you promised to help them drive out?’

  ‘I have nothing to fear from the Triads. I know their methods, their leaders, their hiding places. Once my puppet is installed on the Dragon Throne, the menace of the Triads will be crushed for ever.’

  ‘Hear that, Ultzmann? You’ve got to hand it to your friend here, the way he’s been playing everyone off against each other: Manchus, Triads, the China traders. Does Bannatyne think that Zhai Jing-mu won’t go back on his promise to him, the way he’s so willing to go back on his promise to help the Triads?’

  Ultzmann looked uncertain, but said nothing.

  ‘Perhaps if the Triads were here instead of you, we’d be hearing a very different story,’ persisted Killigrew. ‘About how he intends to renege on his promises to the barbarians, to put the Triads in an unassailable position of power in Peking, and to drive all barbarians from the Celestial Kingdom.’

  ‘Herr Bannatyne knows what he’s doing,’ said Ultzmann. But even he no longer sounded convinced.

  ‘Silence!’ snapped Zhai. ‘We have heard enough from you, Killigrew.’ He took one of the irons from the brazier and approached the table. ‘Unless, that is, you wish to scream. That would be music to my ears. An eye first, I think. Do your own Christian scriptures not teach: “An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth”?’

  He leaned over Killigrew with the glowing iron and slowly brought it nearer and nearer to his face. The lao-pan’s single blue eye glittered as he relished the moment. Killigrew’s attention was transfixed by that glowing tip as its searing heat came close enough to warm his cheek and bring tears to his eyes.

  ‘You’d better make up your mind whose side you’re on chop chop, Reverend,’ Killigrew called in desperation. ‘Help me now, and there’s a chance you’ll live through this. But don’t think neither Bannatyne nor Zhai Jing-mu will betray you.’

  ‘You’re not taken in by his foolish chatter, a
re you, Ultzmann?’ asked Zhai.

  ‘Of course not!’ stammered the missionary.

  ‘Good. Because you know what will happen if you do not co-operate. You see, Killigrew, there is no one to help you now…’

  An excited jabber came from the direction of the jetty. Everyone around the table looked up to see seven more junks sailing up the creek, battered and battle-damaged: round shot embedded in their timbers, masts missing, gaping holes ripped through their mat-and-rattan sails, and scorched paintwork. Someone on one of the junks was signalling.

  ‘What is he saying?’ demanded Zhai.

  ‘They have been pursued here by two barbarian ships,’ said the man holding down Killigrew’s right wrist. While he was concentrating on the signals, he relaxed his hold just enough for Killigrew to raise his arm a couple of inches off the table until the backs of the man’s hands touched the red-hot iron held by Zhai. He screamed as his flesh sizzled, and released the lieutenant’s wrist.

  Killigrew grabbed the iron in Zhai’s hand and smashed it against the head of the man who held his left wrist. As the man went down, Killigrew was able to sit up and parry a sword-stroke from the man who had held his right wrist. As the man raised his sword for a second blow, a shot sounded. Surrounded by enemies, Killigrew knew it could only have been aimed at him. He looked down at himself in search of the bullet wound, and then realised he had felt no pain. He glanced up at the swordsman. A bullet-hole had appeared in his forehead. He dropped his sword and sank to the shingle.

  ‘Let him up.’

  As the pilong holding Killigrew’s left leg backed away from the table, Killigrew twisted. Ultzmann stood with his pepperbox in one hand, smoke curling lazily from one of the muzzles.