Killigrew and the Golden Dragon

by Jonathan Lunn

  ‘Mœander is signalling, sir!’ warned Midshipman Cavan.

  The frigate in the Tisiphone’s tow was so close Captain Keppel could easily have called his instructions across to the sloop with his speaking trumpet; but there was a greater chance that someone in Zhai Jing-mu’s fleet would understand English than be able to interpret naval signals.

  Neither Hartcliffe nor Killigrew needed to raise their telescopes to understand the signal hoist: ‘Shanghae to take left flank, Tisiphone will tow Mœander to centre three cables from flagship, cast off tow, and take right flank.’

  ‘So we have to run the gauntlet of half their line before we get in place, eh?’ a sailor with a Liverpudlian accent grumbled. ‘And get into position while we’re about it.’

  Killigrew did not recognise him at first, which was strange, because he had taken care to get to know the names of all the hands during the voyage from Portsmouth. Then he saw the sailor take out a comb and tidy his hair, as if he were going on a run ashore as opposed to into battle. The gesture reminded Killigrew of where he had seen this man before. ‘It’s Endicott, isn’t it?’

  The Liverpudlian turned with a blush. ‘That’s right, sir. Ordinary Seaman Seth Endicott.’

  ‘When did you come aboard, Seaman Endicott?’

  ‘Yesterday morning, sir, with the other new lads.’ He jerked his head at three companions.

  Killigrew realised that these men had been brought on board to fill the gap left by the deaths of Dando, Firebrace, Gadsby and O’Connor. Later he would have to find out the names and ratings of the other three newcomers, but now was not the time. ‘You don’t approve of Captain Keppel’s tactics?’ he asked Endicott.

  ‘I didn’t mean that, sir.’

  ‘I should hope not. I also take it you didn’t mean to speak after the boatswain’s mates had piped for silence?’

  Endicott hung his head.

  ‘You’re allowed one mistake in my watch, Mr Endicott, and you’ve used yours up already. Watch your step.’

  Abashed, the Liverpudlian nodded and went about his work in silence.

  Smiling faintly, Killigrew studied the line of junks through the telescope once more. They were less than a mile away now, and he was close enough to see the springs which ran from the junks’ sterns to their anchor cables, so that their bows did not turn as the tide flowed into the creek. He checked his watch. ‘What time did Keppel say high tide was?’

  ‘Half-past seven,’ replied Hartcliffe. ‘Must be on the turn by now.’

  Killigrew nodded and returned his watch to the fob-pocket in his waistcoat. ‘Don’t you lads fret,’ he told Endicott and his companions. ‘Captain Keppel knows what he’s doing.’

  A sound like thunder rolled across the creek, reverberating off the hills on either side, and twenty-one plumes of smoke billowed from the gun ports of Zhai Jing-mu’s flagship to merge into one cloud which hid the junk from sight. Even as the first balls hurled up great fountains of water before the Shanghae’s bows, the guns of the other junks boomed in quick but ragged succession. About a cable’s length ahead of the Shanghae, a wall of water boiled out of the creek, momentarily blotting out all sight of the line of junks. Even as the last echoes of the broadside died away, Killigrew could hear the spray thrown up sheeting back down into the water with a loud hiss.

  The pilongs had fired first, and their shots had all fallen short.

  ‘Full steam ahead, Mr Cavan!’ snapped Hartcliffe. ‘Take her three points to starboard, Mr Ågård.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir!’ As the midshipman descended to the engine room once more, the helmsman and his assistant span the wheel, bringing the Tisiphone’s head a couple of points to starboard until the paddle-sloop was making for the flagship at the centre of the line.

  The paddle-wheels churned with renewed urgency, slapping the water rhythmically. As the two steamers raced to get into position before the pilongs could reload their guns, the Shanghae veered off to her allotted position at the left flank of the line.

  ‘We’ve got the flagship in our sights, sir!’ called the gunner. ‘Want us to open fire?’

  ‘Hold your fire!’ Hartcliffe called back. ‘Captain Keppel would never thank us if we snatched the prize from under his nose,’ he added sotto voce to Killigrew. ‘Stand by to alter course to starboard!’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir!’ The gunner directed his team to pivot the bow-chaser on its racers until it was ready to fire through one of the gun ports on the port side of the bow.

  The Tisiphone was less than three cables’ lengths from the line of junks now.

  ‘Stand by to let go the tow rope… let go!’

  The cable was dropped in the Tisiphone’s wake. Behind them, the Mœander glided closer to the line of junks under her own momentum, at the same time putting her helm hard over to bring her broadside-on to the enemy.

  ‘Hard a-port, Mr Ågård!’ ordered Hartcliffe.

  ‘Aye, aye, sir!’ The quartermaster brought the Tisiphone’s head around to starboard so that they sailed parallel to the line of junks. They were only three hundred yards away now, close enough for Killigrew to see the pilongs on deck, bare-chested and glistening with sweat as they worked to reload their guns beneath the glare of the morning sun. They had almost finished and any moment now the Tisiphone would be caught broadside on to the pilongs’ guns.

  Except that Keppel had timed it to a nicety. The pilongs had almost finished reloading when the ebbing tide suddenly swung the junks on their springs so that they lay in a bow-and-quarter line with their broadsides bearing across one another’s sterns. The pilongs on the deck, who only a few seconds earlier had been preparing to sweep the creek with a maelstrom of shot with quiet confidence, now ran to and fro across their decks jabbering in panic as they tried to rectify their new headings. A great cheer went up from the Tisiphone’s deck.

  ‘Pipe down!’ roared the boatswain. The men at once fell silent.

  ‘Thank you, bosun,’ said Hartcliffe. ‘Open fire, Guns.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir!’ The gunner turned to Molineaux and the captain of the thirty-two-pounder abaft of the Tisiphone’s port-side paddle-box. ‘Fire!’

  Both guns boomed at once, hurling round shot at the junks ranged to the Tisiphone’s left, and both were bang on target, each blowing a hole through the planks of a junk’s hull. Then the two gun crews raced one another to be the first to reload ready for their next shot.

  Astern of the Tisiphone, the Shanghae engaged the two junks at the far end of the line, the only pilong vessels which could bring their guns to bear on the Mœander. The Mœander herself, meanwhile, had anchored three hundred yards from the centre of the line and her port broadside boomed repeatedly as she exchanged shots with Zhai Jing-mu’s flagship and the junks around her.

  The pilongs on the junks opposite the Tisiphone worked furiously, hauling on their springs to bring their broadsides to bear while the paddle-sloop’s gun crews had free reign to hammer their opponents unmolested. Within moments two of the junks had been blown out of the water by well-placed shells from Molineaux’s bow-chaser, while two more had taken a battering from the thirty-six-pounder and a fifth was in flames.

  Then the junks which were still in a position to put up a fight had hauled round their heads until their broadsides had been brought to bear, dashing any hopes of an easy fight. The pilongs kept up a well-sustained fire, hurling shots at the paddle-sloop as fast as they could reload their old-fashioned guns, but their shooting was wild. Some balls flew across the Tisiphone’s bow, others fell astern, but most fell short. Only a couple of dozen went home. One ball passed through the signal locker and the gun room; another struck the port-side paddle-box, smashing the bath and harness casks, before landing on the quarter-deck and rolling between Hartcliffe and Ågård, who stood less than three feet apart. The ball ploughed on until it smashed through the captain’s skylight and plunged into the cabin below.

  Ågård cursed. ‘Would you take the helm from me for a moment, sir?’ he asked Killigrew. H
e had to shout to make himself heard above the din, but his voice was otherwise calm.

  The lieutenant glanced at him. The passing ball had doubled-up the quartermaster’s cutlass and forced the point into his calf. Blood streamed from the wound.

  ‘Of course.’ Killigrew helped Ågård’s assistant with the wheel. The quartermaster coolly pulled the cutlass-point from his leg – blood gouted – and then bound up the wound with his neckerchief. ‘Better get down to the sick berth and let Mr Westlake take a look at that, Mr Ågård. Mr Holcombe can take your place.’

  ‘I’ll be all right, sir,’ said Ågård, resuming his place at the helm. ‘The sawbone is going to have his hands full with properly wounded men to want to worry about a little scratch like this.’

  Ships and junks continued to pound one another. The noise was terrific and a thick pall of smoke hung over the creek. On the decks of all three European vessels the gun crews had stripped to their waists to work their guns, while ship’s boys scurried to and fro between the guns with powder, shot and shells. Killigrew did not imagine that the scenes on board the junks could be much different.

  With so much sweat and energy expended by the Tisiphones, Killigrew was starting to feel like a spare part. He was ready to help the boatswain direct the hands to clear away wreckage or carry the wounded below, but there was little wreckage and no one was seriously wounded; not on board the Tisiphone, at least. He was also ready to take Hartcliffe’s place if the worst should come to the worst, but thankfully his friend seemed impervious as he dominated the quarter-deck. There was no sign of his usual diffidence.

  Wherever there was a space along the port-side bulwark the marines lined up to shoot at the pilongs on the decks of the junks with their muskets, while the pilongs returned their fire with gingalls. Killigrew was tempted to blaze away with his pepperbox, but knew at that range he would be wasting shots.

  The contest was still undecided, but while all three British vessels had taken a battering, at least they were all still afloat and in action, which was more than could be said for the junks. Of the fifteen or so that were still afloat – with so much smoke drifting across the scene, it was hard to be certain of anything – at least half were ablaze. But the pilongs showed no sign of surrendering, proving that Killigrew’s earlier assessment of Zhai Jing-mu applied equally well to the men who followed him. There was no let-up of shots from the crews who were still capable of operating their guns.

  Killigrew ducked as another wild shot snatched a spar off the foremast, and it plunged to the netting immediately above his head in a tangle of rigging. ‘Everything all right, Molineaux?’

  ‘Just plummy, sir!’ Molineaux replied, beaming, and turned briefly to address his men. ‘Come on, you idle bastards! Get your fingers out of your bum-holes and get that gun reloaded, damn you! Where’s the next cartridge? Ah, there you are. Well don’t just stand there like a black slug in a cunny-warren, boy! Pass it to the loader!’

  Killigrew smiled. Clearly Molineaux was enjoying himself immensely. The lieutenant lingered by the bow-chaser long enough to see the gun crew put their next shell into a junk, shredding it into so much driftwood in the wink of an eye, and then made his way back across the ordered chaos of the deck to where Hartcliffe stood on the quarter-deck.

  Hartcliffe pointed through a break in the smoke torn by a sudden gust of wind to where they could just see a dozen men climbing over the far side of Zhai Jing-mu’s flagship into a fast rowing boat. ‘Looks like even Zhai Jing-mu thinks he’s beaten.’

  It was hardly surprising. The flagship was ablaze now, and even as Killigrew and Hartcliffe watched another shell from the Mœander exploded inside the big junk’s magazine. A great flash lit up all the smoke scarlet with a tremendous boom. A moment later the junk had disappeared in a dense volume of smoke mixed with pieces of junk, masts and men. The very sides of the junk seemed to open out. A cheer rose up from all three British vessels, and Admiral Huang clapped his hands together with a delighted cry. ‘How-how-ah!’

  When the smoke cleared the junk could be seen to be settling down, with only her lofty stern and the mizzen-mast showing above the water, Zhai Jing-mu’s red, black and gold ensign now ragged at the tip of the mast. About a hundred yards away the rowing boat could be seen racing up the creek.

  ‘Damn it, the blackguard’s getting away!’ exclaimed Hartcliffe.

  ‘Has Keppel seen? Perhaps if we signal…’ Killigrew glanced across to the becalmed frigate and his heart leaped into his mouth. ‘Look to the Mœander!’

  Although stricken, Zhai Jing-mu’s flagship had not sunk and its blazing stern now drifted loose of its anchor cable, carried downstream by the ebbing tide towards the helpless frigate.

  The crew of the Mœander had seen their peril. If the blazing junk ran into the frigate then Keppel and his crew would find it impossible to stop the blaze from spreading through the rigging. What little wind had stirred the air earlier had died altogether and there was no point in the Mœander setting her sails, but they had tripped their anchor so they could drift with the tide before the burning junk. But the junk, with most of her hull beneath the water, was moving faster and bore down inexorably on the frigate.

  ‘We’ll have to help them!’ said Hartcliffe. ‘Full ahead, Mr Cavan!’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir!’ Cavan set off on another visit to the engine room.

  Hartcliffe turned to Ågård. ‘Hard-a-starboard!’

  While they waited for the engine to start up and give the Tisiphone some way, Killigrew realised that the paddle-sloop would never make it. The Mœander was almost half a mile away, and with every passing second the ebb tide carried her off further, at the same time bringing the blazing junk closer. Frigate and junk were less than fifty yards apart and the two would be locked together before another minute had passed.

  And then a miracle happened. The Shanghae suddenly burst forth from the thick bank of smoke on the far side of the Mœander. Somehow Commander Robertson had seen the frigate’s peril from his own position and steamed to the rescue while the Tisiphone had still been getting her engines started. Now the Shanghae nosed into the narrow gap between the Mœander and the blazing junk. Putting her starboard bow to the frigate’s side, she began to push her clear of the fire-raft which the junk had become.

  The frigate’s weight slowed the Shanghae for a moment, and now it was the steamer which was threatened by the blazing junk. The junk came close enough to scorch the paintwork on the Shanghae’s sides, and then the steamer’s paddles bit at the water once more and won enough momentum to carry both vessels clear of the drifting junk. Killigrew felt relief wash over him.

  The Tisiphone’s engines started up, once there was no need for them. ‘Ah, there you are, Mr Cavan,’ Hartcliffe said as the midshipman’s head bobbed up through the hatch. ‘Ask Mr Muir to stop the engines, there’s a good fellow.’

  Cavan sighed and went below once more.

  Killigrew took stock of the situation. The last of the junks had been silenced. They were all in confusion, the ones that were ablaze drifting into the others and setting those alight as well. Pilongs jumped overboard on all sides, swimming desperately for the shore. Wherever one could see through the thickening smoke, the only sight was that of the heart of Zhai Jing-mu’s once-proud pirate fleet sinking in flames.

  ‘Mœander is signalling, sir,’ said the yeoman of the signals.

  Both Hartcliffe and Killigrew could read the signals for themselves: Go after ZJM. Mœander and Shanghae will finish off here. The frigate was too deep-draughted to risk proceeding any further up the creek.

  ‘Mr Cavan!’ called Hartcliffe.

  The midshipman was just emerging from the hatch once more. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Ahead slow, if you please.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Cavan rolled his eyes insubordinately and disappeared yet again.

  ‘We should rig up some kind of telegraph running from the quarterdeck to the engine room, so that orders can be relayed instantaneously to the engi
neer,’ remarked Killigrew.

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Hartcliffe. ‘It’s good exercise for the snotties.’

  The paddle-wheels churning slowly, the Tisiphone nosed forwards between the junks that blazed on all sides. They steamed through the thick smoke, fires showing dimly through the acrid fug. Here and there voices could be heard crying out plaintively in Cantonese as a pilong called out for help to comrades who no longer lived. On more than one occasion a pilong swam towards them only to realise too late it was a British vessel he was turning to for help. When they saw their mistake they would swim off in the direction from which they had come, but one of the marines invariably put a musket ball between their shoulder blades and they slipped beneath the waves.

  Killigrew wiped his streaming eyes with his handkerchief and peered through the smoke ahead in case an undamaged junk should suddenly loom in front of them. The gun crews stood by their loaded guns, ready to fire. The smoke thinned out and then the Tisiphone had burst through on the other side. There was still no sign of any more junks, and the creek stretched open before them. On either side Killigrew could see pilongs wading ashore and scrambling up the banks to disappear into the trees. Several of the marines levelled their muskets.

  ‘Belay that!’ said Killigrew. ‘Save your powder and shot for men with fight left in them.’ Perhaps the fleeing Chinese might one day return to the sea to renew their careers as pilongs, but Killigrew had bigger fish to fry.

  Specifically, Zhai Jing-mu. Whatever else happened this day, Killigrew would see the lao-pan punished for Peri’s murder, or die himself in the attempt. The fast rowing boat, which had slipped away from the side of the flagship only moments before she had been blown apart, was now half a mile ahead of the Tisiphone, disappearing around the next bend in the creek. Killigrew ordered the leadsman to the chainwales to call soundings. Zhai Jing-mu appeared to be getting away, but the Tisiphone could not go any faster for fear of running into shoal water; perhaps the pilongs were deliberately trying to draw them into the shallows of the uncharted creek.