by John Wilcox
‘This is it, I think,’ said Dixon, his face white in the semi-darkness. ‘From the bridge, Durham’s organising the rigging of lines to hang over the starboard guard rail, obviously to make the ship easier to board. Chung Li’s men are doing the work – and they’ve got their swords slung over their backs.’
Alice drew in her breath with a hiss.
‘Where’s Chung Li and the skipper?’ demanded Fonthill, slipping on his trousers and tucking the Webley revolver behind his belt. ‘And what about the chief engineer?’
‘The skipper is at the helm himself, as far as I can see, and I think that Chung Li is on the fo’c’sle, ready to let go the anchor. Macintosh is down below, with his Laskars, tending to the engines. It’s his watch.’
‘Right,’ said Simon. ‘Now here’s the plan. Freddy, you man the deck hose on the starboard side, ready to knock back any of the pirates if they board. Here, 352’ – he took the revolver from his belt and gave it to Jenkins – ‘you stand over us and shoot anybody who tries to interfere. Give me your knife.’
‘What are you going to do, then, bach sir?’
‘I shall cut the ropes they have rigged. Alice …’
She nodded mutely.
‘Do you have your pistol?’
‘Yes. Here.’
‘Good. You stand by, out of harm’s way as best you can, but be ready to shoot to back up 352 if we get into trouble. Is all that clear?’
Three voices chorused assent.
‘Good. But no shooting until we have clearly made sure that it is pirates who are about to board. Give me your binoculars, Freddy.’
It was noticeably lighter as the four slipped out of the cabin door onto the deck on the port side. The mainland of China now loomed as a great blue mass to starboard and Simon glimpsed the flickering lights of a fishing village only a couple of cables away. He drew in his breath. They had left it late!
He stole around the corner of the deckhouse, trained the binoculars on the shore and focussed them. Into view came a sampan, its sail hanging limply in the still air but being rowed swiftly by two oarsmen towards the steamer. Six more men were crowded aboard, long swords slung over their backs and what appeared to be grapnels at their feet. They were near. Damned near!
He hissed over his shoulder: ‘Pirates – starboard side!’
‘Simon.’
Alice’s warning cry made him whirl round and, with the instinct of twenty-five years’ campaigning, duck quickly to his side as a sword blade cut into the woodwork of the deckhouse just above his head. He swung the glasses by their straps into the face of the Chinaman wielding the sword and kicked out with his foot, catching the man in the stomach. His assailant made the mistake of wrestling with the sword to free it from where it had cut deeply into the housing and this gave Fonthill the chance to draw Jenkins’s knife from his belt and plunge it deeply into the man’s breast. He collapsed without a sound.
A shot rang out and then a curse from somewhere as Simon ran to the starboard rail, bloodstained knife in hand. He caught a glimpse of Jenkins desperately pulling at the magazine of the Webley before Simon had to turn his attention to the first rope. Predictably, it was thick and toughened by salt and it took all of forty-five seconds of frantic hacking before it parted. From somewhere, he heard Jenkins swear again and then the slap of bare feet on the deck and the lighter bark of Alice’s little handgun.
Whatever the action, it was happening on the other side of the deckhouse beyond his sight and Simon had no option but to run to the next rope and begin sawing at it. A weight from below made it taut but it eventually parted and he heard a cry and then a splash as the end of it dropped away. There was no time to look over the rail and he slipped as he ran to the next rope, conscious that water was under his feet. Two more ropes to go! Could he sever them before they were climbed?
He reached the next line just as a pigtailed head rose above the bulwark. He jabbed the knife into the man’s neck and, with a shriek, the boarder fell over backwards, bringing down the man on the rope beneath him so that they both crashed into the boat below. Frantically pulling the rope up onto the deck, Simon ran to the remaining line, but not before a boarder had leapt over the rail and pulled his long, curved sword from the scabbard hanging behind his back. The man advanced on Fonthill, the sword poised over his shoulder, his eyes expressionless, intent on the kill.
Then a jet of water caught the boarder in the midriff, sending him crashing into the rail. Simon sprang towards him but his sandals slipped on the deck, now glistening with water from the hose. Sprawled flat out, he reached out with a desperate hand, grasped the man’s ankle and plunged the knife into the Chinaman’s bare foot. The man howled but then the high-pitched note of Alice’s pistol barked again and the bullet took him in the chest.
‘The rope,’ screamed Dixon. ‘Cut the rope!’ Fonthill staggered to his feet and was just in time to slash with the knife at the hands of the next boarder as they clutched at the rail. The man grunted, sought to regain a foothold on the ship’s plating, slipped and then, waving his arms frantically, fell backwards into the sea. Breathing hard, Simon grabbed the rope, pulled it on board and turned, fearful at what he might see.
Behind him, in the gap between the deckhouse and the bridge, Alice was standing, fidgeting with the mechanism of her pistol. A sharp noise from above made Simon turn his gaze upwards. On the starboard wing of the bridge, Durham was slipping a round into the magazine of a Martini-Henry rifle, before resting its barrel on the rail.
Then he took aim at Alice whose attention was now being drawn to the port side of the ship.
‘No,’ screamed Simon and he threw the knife as hard as he could at the figure above him. The cry was enough to distract Durham and the shot whistled above Alice’s head. The knife, spinning in the air, caught the first officer full in the face, slicing open his cheek.
Durham staggered back, clutching at his cheek. With a curse, he kicked at the knife, which fell from the bridge at Simon’s feet on the deck below. The first officer reached in his pocket for another round, inserted it into the slot above the trigger mechanism and raised the rifle again. But he had no time to aim it before the powerful jet from Dixon’s hose caught him squarely in the chest, hurling him back to the rail behind him with such force that he arched over it and, with a despairing cry, fell to the deck below, where he lay still.
‘God bless you, Freddy,’ cried Fonthill and began to move towards Alice, when he saw a tired arm from Dixon gesture behind him.
He was in time to see a grapnel curl over the side of the ship for’ard and hook itself onto the rail, the rope to which it was attached immediately becoming taut. Simon rushed towards it, half sliding along the slippery deck, and kicked hard at the head that rose above the decking. The boarder rode the kick, however, still clinging to the rope, and grabbed Fonthill’s ankle, pulling his leg through the gap between the deck and the lower rail. Simon kicked again and the Chinaman, left holding one wet sandal, overbalanced and fell backwards into the sea.
A second man, however, remained clinging to the rope lower down. Gritting his teeth, Fonthill seized the line and gradually pulled it and the man upwards so that the strain was taken off the grapnel hooked over the rail. Not daring to let go of the rope, he attempted to dislodge the hook with his elbow but it was too firmly wedged.
Suddenly, the sodden form of Dixon emerged at his side. The young man grabbed the hook, wrenched it free and tossed it overboard, the curled iron hitting the would-be boarder on the head as he splashed into the water.
Fonthill gulped air into his lungs and mutely held out his hand to Dixon. The two men briefly shook hands and then looked over the side. They saw that the sampan, half submerged, had floated away, with one man aboard attempting to bail it and four others splashing after it. A further three bodies lay floating, face down in the bloodstained water.
‘What about Alice and Jenkins?’ gasped Simon.
Dixon, equally breathless, pointed to the stern. As he did so a
shot rang out from the bridge. The two men exchanged anxious glances.
‘Laxer!’ cried Fonthill. He shot a despairing glance upwards. ‘Can you go up to talk to him?’ he breathed to Dixon. ‘He’s obviously got the other rifle. He might listen to you. I must see what has happened to Alice and Jenkins. The bosun is still about somewhere. So take care.’
Dixon nodded his head and carefully began climbing the ladder to the bridge. Simon regained Jenkins’s knife and as he turned to go aft heard the unmistakable sound of Alice’s pistol. Praying that this meant that she was still alive, he rounded the corner of the deckhouse and saw her kneeling at the side of the second of Chung Li’s henchmen, who was now sprawled on the deck, blood from a gaping wound in his head beginning to stain his headband.
‘Thank God that you’re still alive,’ he gasped as he knelt down and gathered her into his arms.
She pulled away and gestured to the prostrate deckhand. ‘I think he’s dead,’ she whispered. Then, more strongly, ‘My God, I have killed two men this morning, within the space of five minutes.’ She regarded her husband, wide-eyed.
He held her again. ‘It can’t be helped,’ he murmured. ‘It was them or us. And you undoubtedly saved my life. God! What would I do without you?’
Again she pushed him away. ‘352,’ she exclaimed. ‘He’s somewhere in the stern. He went after the bosun. I think he’s unarmed because your revolver jammed. I am out of ammunition. Quick, we must go to help him.’
Fonthill stood erect, swaying slightly. As Alice attempted to struggle to her feet he gently pushed her down again, then he stooped to regain the knife he had put on the deck and ran aft, along the port rail. He cleared the deckhouse and looked up at the poop deck. There, framed against the rising sun, two figures, looking almost primeval in the harsh morning light, were circling each other.
At first glance, the two combatants looked remarkably alike. Both were short, obviously muscular, wide in chest and shoulders, and dressed in casual, loose garments. Their moustaches were markedly different – worn in styles of East and West – but their black eyes could be those of brothers as they locked on to each others. The main difference, however, was that Chung Li clasped his long, curved sword and Jenkins was unarmed. The casual observer might have wondered why the Chinaman did not leap in immediately and dispose of the Welshman with one thrust or swing, but Fonthill sensed that the bosun, himself the veteran of a dozen or more hand-to-hand encounters, knew that this opponent was to be treated with respect, even though he carried no weapon. It was clear, as he circled, catlike in his bare feet, that he was assessing Jenkins and waiting for his moment.
Simon called, ‘I’m coming up’ and he began to climb the companionway to the poop.
‘Thank you very much, bach sir, I’m sure,’ said Jenkins evenly, without taking his eyes off his opponent. ‘But I’d be grateful, see, if you’d keep out of the bloody way. I can take ’im on my own, look you. Mind you, I see you’ve got me knife. That could be a bit useful, so see if you can just divert the bugger for a second and toss it to me like …’
Fonthill made a great event of thumping onto the deck from the top step of the ladder and, for one brief moment, Chung Li turned his head. It was enough for Simon to throw the knife to Jenkins, where it landed at his feet. The Welshman immediately bent to pick it up, but it gave the bosun his chance and he leapt forward and swung the sword in a great downward arc. Jenkins, however, was quicker and leapt away, with an alacrity that saw the blade miss his head by inches and made Simon draw in his breath in admiration. His old comrade was giving the Chinaman at least thirteen years in age but there seemed nothing between them in terms of fitness.
Nevertheless, the knife now lay on the deck between them, like a prize to be won by the bravest in some medieval joust.
Fonthill looked around despairingly in an attempt to find some weapon. The odds were stacked against Jenkins, despite his skill and agility, and he must be helped. But there was nothing that seemed capable of hurting this samurai-like pirate – except perhaps the rope that lay on the deck ready for use as a stern line.
It was better than nothing and Simon grabbed the eye in the end of the rope and a couple of coils. Then, waiting his moment, he threw it at the Chinaman. The man leapt easily aside but it distracted him enough to allow Jenkins to swoop on the knife.
‘Thank you very much, bach sir,’ said the Welshman, in civil tones, as though he was at a respectable dinner table. ‘But, with great respect, like, I would be much obliged if you would stay out of this fuckin’ fight. You keep destroyin’ me concentration, see. An’ you might get hurt. I can ’andle this chap now I’ve got me knife, like. For which, thank you. Most grateful.’
As though tired of these asides, Chung Li suddenly jumped forward, whirling his blade above his head and to his side as if in a circus. Then he swung it in two glittering arcs, first horizontally and then in a diagonal, downward sweep. Again, however, Jenkins ducked under the first without moving his eyes from those of the Chinaman and skipped away from the second, making no attempt to counter-attack.
Fonthill sucked in his breath. When would his old comrade make his move? He could not remain on the defensive for ever.
As though reading his mind, Jenkins now bent low and shuffled forward, extending his arm as though in a negotiating gesture. It was too much for the bosun, who could not resist the offer. He swung the sword to sever the arm from the body and in doing so overbalanced, for it was a two-handed weapon and he swung round with the impetus. Immediately, Jenkins withdrew the arm and jumped in low and hard, the knife extended. It sank into the ribs of the Chinaman, who gasped and bent over. Immediately, 352 withdrew his weapon and plunged it into the chest, straight into the pirate’s heart. The man sank down with a sigh, his sword clattering away across the deck.
Jenkins stood gasping for a moment, his shoulders bowed. Then he stood up, wiped his brow and said, ‘There you are, bach sir. Knew I could do ’im. Took a while, though. I must be gettin’ old, look you.’
Fonthill shook his head slowly from side to side. ‘352,’ he said, ‘you’re a miracle, indeed you are. I just don’t know how you do it, I really don’t.’
The Welshman grinned. ‘Clean livin’, that’s all, bach sir. Just clean livin’.’
They heard a cry from Alice, standing in the waist of the ship. ‘Are you both all right?’
The cry was echoed from the wing of the bridge. Dixon was standing there, a rifle on the rail. ‘I’ve been trying to get in a shot for ages,’ he said. ‘But I’m no good with this thing and I was frightened of hitting either of you. Is he dead?’
Simon nodded to both of them, then to Dixon: ‘What about Laxer?’
The second officer shook his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his voice falling. ‘The skipper’s dead. That shot we heard was of him taking his life. He must have done it when he saw that all was lost. Best way out, probably.’
Fonthill looked towards the shore. He could see that the sampan was still floating away, half submerged, with a handful of the pirates clinging to it. He called to Dixon: ‘We’d better get out of here in case they try it again. If you take the wheel and the engine-room telegraph can I get the anchor up?’
‘Yes. The T-bar that works the capstan was left in position right up for’ard. Keep clear of the chain, though.’
‘What’s happened to the crew?’
‘Chung Li locked them in the fo’c’sle. The key’s in the lock. Get them out and they’ll help you with the anchor. Then they can throw the bodies overboard. If they float ashore they’ll be a deterrent to those bastards in the village. Show ’em what happens to pirates.’
‘Aye aye, Mr Dixon, sir.’
By midday, the SS Bellingham had left the Chinese mainland far behind, on a course for Singapore plotted by Dixon, and with the bodies disposed of and the decks washed down. The bemused Chinese crew had been given a special issue of rice wine and set to work chipping at rust, and Mr Macintosh had been told of the strange h
appenings that had been taking place above his head as he had been lubricating his much-loved machinery.
In the captain’s cabin, Fonthill and Alice found further evidence of Laxer’s complicity with the Tientsin Tongs. There were copies of IOUs, totalling £1,349, and three notes addressed to him in poor English demanding payment. Another letter gave details of where to pick up Chung Li and then the exact location of the pirates’ village. As the cook had reported, a considerable sum in Chinese money had been promised on delivery of the tea, and a further sum for Bellingham’s value as scrap.
‘That’s why Laxer wasn’t bothered about keeping the ship in good condition on this last voyage,’ said Simon. He shook his head. ‘Goodness me, the man must have gone completely downhill. What skipper would sell his ship like that?’
Alice nodded. ‘Well, he must have been in despair. That’s why he took his life. There was no way out for him.’
That evening, Alice insisted on cooking the dinner for them all with the cook sitting at table with them. ‘If it wasn’t for him,’ she declared, ‘we would all have had our throats cut by now.’
After the meal, Jenkins and the cook each took one of the captain’s cigars and sat on the poop deck exchanging stories of their very different upbringings in Wales. At the table, Alice, Simon and Dixon discussed the next stage of the voyage.
‘How long will the recoaling take in Singapore?’ asked Fonthill.
‘Say one day. The bunkering is only to top up.’
‘And then we can sail for Durban?’
‘Well, that’s up to the owners. I must send them a cable explaining what has happened. We shall also have to report this whole business to the police there and we must find another captain and first officer. That should not be difficult. There are plenty of good seamen looking for a berth in that busy port.’