Killigrew and the Golden Dragon

by Jonathan Lunn

  ‘We’d be quicker walking,’ snorted Killigrew. ‘With your permission, sir?’ Robertson nodded and he opened the door and jumped down.

  ‘Killigrew!’ Robertson called after him.

  The lieutenant turned back. ‘Sir?’

  ‘You heard what Her Majesty’s plenipotentiary said. Find him your shell gun. You’ve got one hour.’

  Killigrew nodded and turned away.

  The crowd engulfed him at once. It seemed as if the entire population of Victoria and Tai-ping-shan were out on the streets for the dragon boat festival: Chinese men and women in red clothes, European men in their finest tail-coats and women in elegant ball gowns fanning themselves against the sultry air of the summer night. Every building was bedecked with paper lanterns. Chinese bands played their exotic, twangly music at a frenetic, joyous tempo while dancers twirled streamers and tumblers performed in every open space, spinning plates on bamboo canes or forming human pyramids. Chinese children ran about screaming and laughing, to the delight of the Western ladies and the annoyance of their husbands and fathers. On Harbour Master’s Wharf, the oarsmen of the dragon boats performed their t’ai chi chu’an exercises to limber up before they climbed into their vessels for the great race. On the roof of his houseboat, Prince Tan was entertaining what Killigrew guessed would be honoured guests; if he had not been otherwise occupied, he would have liked to spend the evening with the mandarin himself. The delicacies would be exquisite, he knew, and the houseboat would provide a grandstand view of the race.

  Firecrackers burst like a ragged volley of musketry in a street nearby, startling him. He whirled and came face to face with a dragon: a carnival dragon, its long body supported on a series of bamboo poles, each pole held separately by a man. The men were acrobats as much as puppeteers, following the lead of the one who controlled the head in perfect synchronisation to make the dragon whirl and swoop above the crowd.

  Killigrew turned away and bumped into a wizened vendor who tried to sell him a packet of rice wrapped in silk and tied up with brightly coloured threads. He waved the old man away irritably and forced his way through the crowd, disorientated by the whirl of lights, faces, activities, spectacles and noise.

  He came to where the governor’s stand had been built in the open space in front of the barracks. None of the big-wigs had taken their places yet, and the empty seats looked like one of the few places where he could get some respite from the chaos.

  ‘Excuse me, sahib!’ A non-commissioned officer of the Madras Light Infantry, the evening’s guard of honour, tried to stop him. ‘But those seats are by invitation only.’

  ‘Oh, shove off!’ snapped Killigrew.

  The soldier hesitated uncertainly, and then saluted. ‘Yes, sahib!’ The NCO about-turned and marched away.

  Killigrew sat down at the centre of the stand and gazed across the sea of faces on the wharf to the harbour beyond. If his tenuous theory was correct in all its assumptions, then the shell gun had to be located within a direct line from where he sat; it would be hidden behind something, but behind something which could quickly be moved aside when the time came.

  But there was no shortage of hiding places. Any one of a hundred yolos and sampans which crowded the waterfront could have concealed such a weapon; it would take hours to search them all, and there were only forty minutes or so left. The hour of the pig began at nine o’clock, the time the dragon boat race was due to commence, and Killigrew guessed the attack would be timed to coincide with that.

  He became aware of a shuffling noise beneath his feet. Glancing down he could just make out a lantern moving around in the empty space beneath the stand. A sudden cold feeling stirred inside him. He had become so fixated on the idea of a shell gun, it had never occurred to him that Bannatyne’s plan might be much simpler than that. Taking Guy Fawkes for his inspiration, all he had to do was pack the space beneath the stand with gunpowder and set it off at the appointed time.

  Trying to act as casually as possible, he stood up and sauntered to the end of the stand. Then, ignoring the stairs, he vaulted over the rail and ducked under the stand, drawing his pepperbox as he did so.

  A shadowy figure played the beam of a bull’s-eye about the floor.

  Killigrew levelled the pepperbox. ‘Stop right there! Identify yourself!’

  ‘Able Seaman Molineaux, HMS Tisiphone,’ came the prompt reply. ‘That you, Mr Killigrew, sir?’

  The lieutenant sighed and hooked his pepperbox to his belt. ‘For Christ’s sake, Molineaux! What the devil d’you think you’re doing?’

  ‘I thought maybe Bannatyne might have packed this place with gunpowder, but no such luck. I was jawing with a havildar a while back; he said they checked under here even before they heard the rumours of an attack, and their patrols are pretty regular.’

  ‘Come on, Molineaux.’ Killigrew sat down on the front row and took out his cheroot case. He lit one, and then found himself offering the case to the seaman.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Go on. Help yourself.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. But I don’t smoke.’

  Killigrew had his hip flask on him. ‘You drink, don’t you?’

  Molineaux stared at the proffered flask uncertainly, and then accepted it. He took a deep pull and gasped. ‘Lumme, sir! That’s smooth!’

  ‘John Jameson’s finest,’ agreed Killigrew. He gestured to the seat beside him. ‘Oh, sit down, man, for God’s sake! You’ve been on your feet as long as I have, if not longer.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Molineaux sat down beside him, but failed to look comfortable.

  ‘What do you think, Molineaux? Is there really a plot to start a war between Britain and China, or am I just being paranoid?’ Killigrew laughed bitterly. ‘It’s rather rum, when you consider it. All my life I thought I knew all the answers to everything. What was wrong, what was right…’

  ‘You ain’t done so bad so far, sir, if you don’t mind my saying.’

  ‘Right now, Molineaux, I’d trade the secrets of the universe for the answer to one simple question: where would I put that shell gun if I was Bannatyne?’

  ‘But you’re not Bannatyne, sir.’

  ‘That’s my point. I’m supposed to be the one with piratical blood in his veins; the one who can think like them, anticipate them, beat them.’

  ‘Not thinking like Mr Bannatyne isn’t anything to be ashamed of, sir.’

  ‘It’s not a question of shame. It’s a question of losing. I don’t like to lose. But right now, Bannatyne’s got me fairly stumped.’

  ‘I’ll wager that Assistant Superintendent Cargill knows, sir. Let me alone with him for half an hour and I’ll get it out of him.’ Killigrew could tell that the idea of beating the living daylights out of a senior police officer appealed to the ex-thief.

  ‘But that’s the catch, Molineaux. We’re supposed to be on the side of law and order. We’re not allowed to do that sort of thing. Which is why bastards like Bannatyne win every time,’ he added bitterly.

  ‘“It was from out of the rind of one apple tasted that the knowledge of good and evil as two twins cleaving together leaped forth into the world. And perhaps this is the doom that Adam fell into of knowing good and evil, that is to say, of knowing good by evil.”’

  Killigrew stared at the seaman. ‘Eh?’

  ‘Something I read in a book, sir, that stuck in my memory. John Milton, Areopagitica.’

  The lieutenant nodded. He had forgotten that Molineaux’s choice of reading could be astonishingly highbrow for a common sailor who had grown up on the back streets of Seven Dials. But as Killigrew was starting to discover, Molineaux was a damned uncommon sailor.

  Molineaux gestured with the hip flask. ‘Mind if I…?’

  Killigrew shook his head. ‘Help yourself.’

  The seaman took another pull, gasped with pleasure, and then screwed the top back on. ‘You know what my ambition is, sir? I want to make something of my life. I want to get on in the navy. Maybe even get rated bosun one day; th
en I can do all the shouting while some other poor bugger does all the graft. I’ve dedicated the past six years of my life to that aim. But I’ll let it all go by the board if it means we can scupper Bannatyne’s plans. Just half an hour, sir. I’ll make him blab. You don’t have to know anything about it.’

  Killigrew knew how serious Molineaux was about his naval career. ‘You’d throw all that away, just to save the life of Bonham and the other stuck-up bigwigs that will be sitting here in half an hour’s time?’

  ‘You mean to tell me you wouldn’t do the same, sir? It ain’t the guv’nor, it’s the Celestials I’m worried about. Damn it, sir – pardon my French – but I like the Chinese. Not just Mei-rong, but all of them. They’re clever, they’re funny, they know how to have a good time when they get the chance… they’re just like us, really.’

  ‘I can’t say I’m feeling particularly clever at this precise moment in time.’

  ‘Cheer up, sir. The villains don’t always win. Remember the Owodunni Barracoon?’

  Killigrew smiled faintly. ‘I could hardly forget.’

  ‘We beat ’em then; we’ll beat ’em again. You’ll see.’

  Killigrew stood abruptly. ‘Come along, Molineaux. It’s time we had a few sharp words with Mr Cargill.’

  They made their way to where Mei-rong was living temporarily on board her mother’s yolo with about a dozen small children. Killigrew could not work out who the children belonged to, but he had the feeling that the mother operated some kind of nursery for working Tanka girls. ‘We need you to take us across to the Tisiphone, chop chop,’ said Killigrew.

  ‘One dollar,’ said Mei-rong.

  ‘Here’s five.’ Killigrew sat down in the stern and Mei-rong quickly cast off and started to scull them out to the paddle-sloop. The children all crowded around Killigrew, demanding that he play with them, until Molineaux came to his rescue by keeping them enraptured with conjuring tricks. They did not understand a word of his monologue, but his funny faces kept them in stitches.

  Yolos had never seemed slower than they did now, but at last they bumped against the Tisiphone’s side, and Killigrew and Molineaux climbed up to the deck. ‘Wait here,’ Killigrew called down to Mei-rong. She had sensed his desperation. ‘Five dollar!’

  ‘Five dollars!’ exclaimed Killigrew. He sighed. ‘All right, five dollars. But you’ll have to wait for it. You know, that young lady is going to make some lucky man a fine business manager one of these days,’ he added in an aside to Molineaux.

  Hartcliffe was on duty on the quarterdeck. ‘Any luck?’

  Killigrew shook his head. ‘We’re going to try talking to Cargill.’

  ‘I’ve already tried, Killigrew, believe me. He’s not talking.’

  ‘You just haven’t been going about it the right way,’ said Killigrew. ‘You may want to go below decks for the next fifteen minutes. And the anchor watch, too.’

  ‘I hope you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking.’

  Killigrew checked his watch. ‘We’ve got twenty-one minutes, my lord. If we don’t find that shell gun by then… I’m going to do whatever it takes.’

  Hartcliffe shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Mr Fanning! Dismiss the watch.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You heard me. I want everyone below decks. That includes you, Private Barnes,’ he added to the marine who was guarding Cargill.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Molineaux told the marine. ‘He ain’t going anywhere. We’ll keep an eye on him.’

  Killigrew stood over the police officer, who was shackled hand and foot. ‘We haven’t got much time, Cargill. I think you know I’m right about this shell gun; and I think you know where it is. If you don’t tell me where it is, and it goes off… if one person dies as a result, I’m going to kill you.’

  Cargill grinned. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

  Killigrew shook his head. ‘Don’t put me to the test, Cargill. Which is it to be?’

  Molineaux glanced across to where Bonham was already taking his seat in the stand with the other assembled bigwigs. ‘Maybe we should take him to the stand and tie him up next to the governor, sir. I reckon he’d talk fast enough then.’

  Killigrew checked his watch again. He was starting to get desperate. ‘There isn’t time. Look, Cargill: in eighteen minutes dozens of people are going to be killed. If that happens, many more will die over the next few months in the course of a senseless war. Do you really want that on your conscience?’

  ‘Come on, Killigrew. You fought in the last war. What about all those men who died then? What did they die for? The Treaty of Nanking? A treaty that the Celestials are refusing to abide by? Five treaty ports, they said; and now they won’t even let us in the walled city of Canton. We should have marched into Peking instead of stopping and making peace when we did. We passed up a great opportunity to teach the yellow-bellies a lesson; if there is another war, it will just put right what was left undone in forty-two.’

  Killigrew grabbed Cargill by the lapels, lifted him to his feet and slammed him back against the bulwark. ‘My patience is running out, Cargill.’

  ‘You’ve got no evidence against me, Killigrew. Do you really think I’m going to admit my guilt by telling you where that gun is? What kind of a jobbernowl do you take me for?’

  Killigrew stared at him.

  Cargill looked uncomfortable. ‘What?’

  The lieutenant grinned. ‘You see? If only you’d said that earlier, you could have saved us all this unpleasantness.’

  ‘Said what? I didn’t say anything!’ protested Cargill.

  ‘My dear assistant superintendent, you really should take more care about the sort of presents you give – and to whom you give them.’

  ‘Eh? What?’ Cargill was bewildered.

  But Killigrew was already turning away. ‘Come on, Molineaux. We’ve got work to do.’

  ‘You know where the gun is, sir? I didn’t hear Cargill say anything.’

  ‘A little bird told me.’

  * * *

  Killigrew and Molineaux surfaced beneath the bows of Prince Tan’s palatial houseboat. Directly above their heads, only a couple of feet above the waterline, a guard armed with a musket stood on the gallery, oblivious to their presence. The two Britons exchanged glances and Killigrew nodded. Then they grabbed an ankle each and pulled the guard’s feet out from under him. He fell down and cracked his head on the deck before he could cry out, his musket landing in the water with a splash.

  A doorway covered only with a silk curtain led into the houseboat from the gallery and a voice called out in Cantonese from within. Killigrew hauled himself out of the water and on to the gallery, taking up position with his back pressed against the bulkhead by the door.

  The curtain was pulled aside and another guard appeared. He saw Molineaux in the water, supporting the body of the unconscious guard, and opened his mouth to cry out a warning. Killigrew’s fist smashed into his jaw.

  Molineaux handed the cable up to the lieutenant, who tied it in a timber hitch to one of the posts supporting the deck head above. ‘That should hold,’ he whispered, picking up the guard’s musket.

  ‘You sure you want to do this alone, sir?’

  Killigrew nodded. ‘Prince Tan is – used to be – a friend of mine. He saved my life once. If I can do this without bloodshed, the happier I’ll be.’

  ‘And if you can’t? You don’t know how many men he has on board.’

  ‘You let me worry about his men. Just make sure this houseboat is turned through ninety degrees so that the starboard side points towards the harbour mouth instead of the waterfront.’ As Molineaux turned and swam back alongside the cable to where Robertson and Hartcliffe waited on the Tisiphone’s quarterdeck, Killigrew pulled aside the curtain and stepped into the passageway beyond. He made his way along it, peeping through the doors on either side as he passed but found no sign of what he was looking for.

  A companion ladder led to the deck above. He started to ascend when he heard footsteps abo
ve. He quickly ducked back down and hid beneath the steps. He saw feet coming down, thrust the musket’s barrel between the steps and swept it to knock the man’s feet out from under him. The man fell forward and hit his head on the bulkhead on his way down. Killigrew scrambled over his unconscious body and crept cat-footed up the steps as he heard a voice above call out in Cantonese.

  ‘Chang? Are you all right?’

  Killigrew heard footsteps and waited at the top of the stairs. A moment later another guard approached. As soon as he hove into view, Killigrew knocked him out with a right cross. He dragged the body back down the steps and laid it next to the first. Then he ripped down a silk hanging, tore it into strips and used it to bind and gag them both.

  Returning to the upper deck, he started to search each of the chambers. The first two he glanced in were deserted, but in the third he found Ai-ling – the Eurasian beauty he had seen talking to Ultzmann at Tan’s pic-nic which seemed like a lifetime ago – tied to a bed. Her eyes widened when he stepped into the compartment. He lifted a finger to his lips, and unfastened the gag.

  ‘Who are you?’ she whispered in Cantonese.

  ‘A friend. You’re Ultzmann’s mistress?’

  She looked offended. ‘His daughter!’

  Killigrew nodded. He should have guessed as much a long time ago. Bannatyne or Tan had somehow found out that the missionary had an illegitimate half-caste daughter. At first they had probably threatened him with exposure; but as their schemes grew more desperate they had kidnapped her and used her as a hostage for the missionary’s help and co-operation.

  He wondered if she knew her father was dead, murdered by Zhai Jing-mu; he knew he could not bring himself to tell her now.

  ‘Prince Tan and Zhai Jing-mu are planning to assassinate the governor,’ Ai-ling said urgently. ‘You must stop them!’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s all in hand. They have a shell gun on board; do you know where it is?’

  ‘The upper deck, I think; I heard them manhandling it on board a few weeks ago.’