God of Luck (9 page)
I NOW KNOW the cookhouse brawl was a trick to draw the corporals and devil-sentries from their posts. Moreover, while the cooks and their helpers cudgeled corporals they deemed untrustworthy, gagged and bound them, corporals committed to the mutiny converted their sticks into more lethal weapons by fitting the ends with well-honed blades, then ran forward to ferret out and subdue devils.
At the same time, mutineers below—alerted by Corporal Woo’s signal that the hatchway was unguarded— led captives up the ladder and herded them towards the ship’s stern, shouting, “Kill the devils! Take over the ship!” in multiple dialects. Some of the leaders snatched grappling hooks or chains, even the large, club-like pegs used to hold coiled rope along the ship’s rail. Others attacked the devil-sentries, seized their muskets and fired them at the devils loading the cannons.
Flat on my belly behind my bucket-shield, I assumed the sentries were still shooting at us. Yet there was no rata-tat against wood.
Boom
! The explosion shattered glass, my skull. The ship convulsed, threatened to break. Men shrieked and wailed. Perhaps I did, too.
Boom
! In the aftershock of this second blast, I rolled helplessly on the pitching deck; my head and limbs slammed flesh, metal, wood; my skin prickled and burned. Amidst the cries of men and devils, pigs squealed, buffalos drummed their hooves, chickens squawked.
“Kill the devils! Take the ship!”
I slitted my eyes, which were watering, as was my nose. Caustic smoke was billowing over bodies, buckets, all manner of debris. A piece of firewood slithered within reach. Snagging it, I realized salt-pellets beaded the deck. So the devils
weren’t
using lead! Emboldened, I sprang upright, but I misjudged the ship’s roll and toppled onto my knees, the landing so jarring I felt impaled.
A musket discharged. Would a cannon be next? Doubling over, I covered my head with both arms, prayed the devils would stay with salt instead of lead and Gwan Gung would split open the cloudless sky, silencing the devils’ weapons with rain.
“Kill the devils! Take the ship!”
Lowering my arms, I cautiously poked up my head, peered through the thin shreds of smoke the wind had yet to blow away. Captives were streaming out of the hatch. Most had not been on deck since boarding, and for many, as much as a month had passed, for some even more. Stiff-legged from their long confinement and doubtless blinded by the light and smoke, they soon stumbled and crashed. An instant later though, they were scrambling back to their feet, raising their fists to the sky, yelling, “Kill the devils! Take the ship!” Shamed, I added my voice to theirs and lurched towards the ragged charge.
Each man’s stumble affected the rest and, more than once, I was toppled by someone reeling into me, sending others flying. Nor was I alone in hurling myself onto the deck at the sound of gunfire. Over and over, however, we picked ourselves up. Those without weapons scooped up suitable debris.
By the time we reached the main mast, the devils were using lead; many of us were stamping our feet as if we were soldiers marching into battle. Then, to avoid the dangerous mess of raucous livestock to the left of the sickroom, we lunged to the right as one, and so tightly were we packed that no one could fall, not even the man whose head exploded like an overripe melon. Or those like myself who, splattered with skin and blood and bone, might also have felt their legs turn to water.
Our chant did falter, and at the frightening clash of metal, anguished cries, and murderous yowls that burst into the lull, it almost disappeared. To give myself heart, I again bawled, “Kill the devils! Take the ship!” Other men did, too. Roaring, we spilled into the area directly in front of the iron barricade.
The headless man sagged onto the planks and slid on the canted deck, tripping those in his path. Muskets fired. A few in the lead fell, flattening more. But most of us kept marching, and our feet pounded loud and strong.
Through fleeting gaps, I saw the barricade had been breached despite the menacing spikes topping its thick rails. I couldn’t make out anything more than flashes of swords, axes, and cleavers, but the crush of devils and men locked in battle seemed to make reloading the cannons impossible and the fighting at the gate looked especially fierce, with men madly slashing and hacking while devils endeavored to force it shut against our advance.
“Kill the devils! Take the ship!”
We surged forward with such power I believed the impact of our bodies alone could flatten the barricade. Mere steps away from it, however, the ship abruptly bucked and rocked. The sails flapped and cracked as if every bit of rigging had snapped and the masts would be next.
Flung to the deck, we tumbled and tossed. Our roar splintered into howls of terror that rose in volume and pitch as the ship floundered ever more wildly, and we with it. Had Gwan Gung sent a storm at last?
Under a tangle of bodies and limbs, I struggled for breath. The load above me shifted, grinding my forehead and nose painfully against grit, hard wood. Heaving mightily, I arched my shoulders, my neck, my head, dislodging enough of the crush for a gust of life-giving air that brought the glorious words: “The ship is ours! We’re homeward bound.”
Listening to Fourth Brother-in-law tell all, I’d had to pinch my lips to keep from fainting. Then I had to lean against the altar and hold one trembling hand with the other before I could light incense to Heaven for guiding Moongirl to my husband.
I hoped the sandalwood smoke would restore me. Our worms, devouring ever larger quantities of mulberry, were expelling more and more waste, and it had become impossible for me to change the paper in their trays as often as I should. Now tendrils of musky odor were creeping into the wormhouse, polluting, and I needed to wash, change my clothes, and get back to work.
Even more, I needed my husband and, bowing my head, I again entreated Heaven to help him best the devils, to come home. Behind me, the family was plying Fourth Brother-in-law with questions.
“Weren’t you afraid?”
“No, I was too full of thoughts about Ah Lung to have room for
any
feelings.”
Twisting around to face Fourth Brother-in-law, I urged, “Apply that same principle in the wormhouse.”
“Bo See,” Fourth Sister-in-law snapped. “
My
husband is talking about
yours
! How can you bring up worms?”
“So Ah Lung won’t come home to starve,” Ba wheezed in a spasm of coughing.
Third Brother-in-law sprang from his stool and pounded Ba’s back. Thrusting a spittoon at the nearest child to hold at the ready for Ba, Eldest Brother-in-law directed those wedged between his wife and the kitchen to open a path for her. Ma, too weak to help, even to speak, flailed her hands. On either side of her, Third and Fourth Sisters-in-law murmured soothingly.
Second Sister-in-law shuttered the window against drafts and late-night damp, then slipped through a crack in the quilt partition. At another click-click of shutter latches, I noticed the altar candles’ flickering light intensify, a heightening in the aroma from the incense. Squinting and sniffing, I tried to gauge how much of the smoke was drifting into the rafters, whether the smell of sandalwood was strong enough to cling to the mulberry baskets on the other side, spoiling the next batch of leaves picked.
Abruptly, Ba hacked out a great gob of phlegm. Moments later, Eldest Sister-in-law hurried in with a bowl of fragrant orange-rind brew she’d heated. When she handed Ba the steaming bowl, he clasped it with both hands, closed his eyes, inhaled deeply.
How could I suggest moving the baskets into the courtyard without causing another upset, I wondered.
“Bo See,” Ba rasped. “Explain yourself.”
I repeated what I’d said over and over in the years since I’d come to Strongworm: “Inside the wormhouse, I think of nothing except our silkworms.”
For the first time, Ba nodded understanding. “That’s why you have no room for any feelings and can be calm.”
“Before Ah Lung was kidnapped, I’d have laughed if anyone had told me I could be filled with thoughts of him alone,” Fourth Brother-in-law admitted. “But worms?”
Other actors in the opera troupe not only confirmed this fellow’s presence but that of several more pirates.
“I won’t forget those lumps of filth if I live to be one hundred.”
“Hum gah chaan, may their families be wiped out!”
“Killing is too good for them. Lahn tahn, may they be paralyzed and forced to crawl.”
“Did you see the bastards filling the longboat with their plunder?”
“Yeah. Then that brute with the double-slash scar sounded the alarm, ‘Man overboard’ and bellowed, ‘Lower the longboat!’”
“Tricky bastard!”
“I sure didn’t hear any cry for help.”
“Not even a splash.”
“Not until that longboat hit water.”
“That’s strange,” Ah Jook mused. “The villains usually wait until dark to make their getaway.”
“What do you mean ‘usually?’” Ah Jun demanded.
“In the boatyard where I worked, it was common knowledge that pirates sell themselves as piglets in order to rob devil-ships, and they always go about it the same way. They start a mutiny when they’re within a few days sail of their lairs. . . .”
“Captives don’t need pirates to get a mutiny going,” Shorty jumped in.
Ah Jun agreed. “When we were imprisoned on the pirates’ junk, we rose against them. We just weren’t lucky enough to take over the vessel like we did here.”
HUNDREDS OF MEN crowded the deck between the sickroom and the water cistern adjacent to the cookhouse.
“Bei hoi, get out of the way,” I pleaded.
All that gave way was my voice, thin and cracked, but I was too thirsty to be polite, and I plunged into the noisy throng. Jovial as on a festival day, most of those I bumped ignored me, the few who raised a hand or voice in anger were easily soothed. I resisted the bangs and shoves that pushed me from my goal, welcomed whatever propelled me closer.
Slamming against the cistern, my pants provided little protection from the metal’s heat. But I did not shrink back a jot. The water sloshed as invitingly as the pure, cool water I drew from our village well and, imitating those around me, I cupped my hands together despite their filth and dipped them in.
Beneath its glittering surface, the lukewarm water was streaked with blood as well as dirt and tasted foul. I drank scoop after scoop anyway. Then, my own thirst satisfied, I dove into the cookhouse, dug out a teapot, sidled, elbowed, and shouldered my way back to the water cistern, filled the pot for Scholar Mok.
The between-decks, although nearly empty, remained gloomy, the air fetid. With no one in my way, however, climbing onto the platform was easy. Kneeling beside Scholar Mok, I took my first close look at the man.
To my dismay, some son of a turtle had stolen his robe, socks, and shoes—everything except his pants. Moreover, the muddy gray of Scholar Mok’s skin was frightening, and his odor rivaled that of the wastebuckets. Could he have soiled himself despite his fast? Or was I smelling decay because he was dead?
“Scholar Mok,” I shouted above the footfalls overhead. “Scholar Mok!”
Accustomed now to the gloom, I saw his chest rise and fall, albeit very slightly, very slowly. Relieved, I persisted.
“Scholar Mok, you can drink. We’re homeward bound.”
I thrilled at the words “homeward bound,” and it seemed to me Scholar Mok’s eyelids fluttered. But his eyes had sunk so deep in their sockets that I might have been mistaken: When I dribbled water through his swollen lips, it spilled from the corners of his mouth, down the sides of his stubbled jaw.
Repeating, “Drink, we’re homeward bound,” I tried again.
This time, not a drop leaked. Encouraged, I carefully tipped in another dollop and another—only to realize when water started trickling out that it must be pooling in Scholar Mok’s mouth.
“Swallow,” I urged.
I checked his throat with my fingertips. In the stuffy heat, he was as drenched as myself. Where my skin was hot to the touch though, his felt chill, and I could detect no movement. Had Scholar Mok become too weak to swallow? If removed from this poisoned air, could he yet be restored?
Rocking back onto my heels, I considered who I could ask to help me carry him on deck. Not the sick groaning in their berths. Nor the gamblers trading insults, rowdy oaths. Should I. . . .
Celebratory firecrackers popped and crackled overhead, and at their merry din, my joy that I’d soon be home swelled, as did my pity for the men lost to their families forever.
QUESTIONED SEPARATELY, TWITCHY, the interpreter, and Ah Duk, the ship’s carpenter, both insisted the captain had feared a mutiny from his sailors almost as much as from us. So the devil had not only forbidden them to gather and converse while on deck, but he’d broken the tips off their knives and hidden any weapons not in use. Then, the mutiny having taken the captain by surprise, he’d had no opportunity to distribute additional swords, muskets, or gunpowder before we overran the ship.
Except for Twitchy and Ah Duk, captain and crew were either chained and under guard or pinned aloft with the muskets in our possession. Should Twitchy and Ah Duk have been shackled, too? Maybe. As more than one man pointed out, the devil-English had won both wars over opium because Chinese evildoers had helped them by working as their translators, craftsmen, and guides.
But did that mean, as these same men contended, that Twitchy and Ah Duk had betrayed us? I don’t know. The racket and confusion on deck was such that men standing side by side later argued over what they witnessed, and I was below.
This, though, is certain: The devils somehow managed to arm themselves, and the pops and crackles I heard weren’t firecrackers but shots that set off a stampede.
“Ai yah!”
“Help! Gow meng ah!”
“Run!”
“Stand and fight!”
Murderous volleys from the cannons thundered over the cries of men leaping, diving, and flying through the three hatches. Too shocked to do anything else, I flung my arms over Scholar Mok’s head, shielding it from the hands, feet, and knees of those madly scrambling into berths from the walkway.
The ship creaked and rocked under the cannons’ roar. The platform beneath us shuddered ominously. Swathes of smelly, blinding dust swirled, strangling. Metal rasped and clanged against metal, and an iron band of dread clamped around my chest. Were the devils locking us in? Should I abandon Scholar Mok and answer the call to fight? Ai, was that the sound of splintering wood?
As the ship pitched, I clutched the board that edged the berth with one hand and held Scholar Mok down with the other, saving him from hurtling onto the walkway. But I could not protect him from the men tossed on top of us, crushing us.
“Diu!”
“Are you mad?”
Thump! Ding! Thump! Thump!
The next roll of the ship sent the men above us tumbling, and through the gloom, I made out shadows swarming the clogged walkway and platforms—realized there was no longer any gunfire in the hubbub.
Thump! Thump! Clink!
Were these sounds a signal like Corporal Woo’s drumming?
Thump! Thump! Thump!
Still holding Scholar Mok steady, I turned around.
Ping! Thump! Thump! Thump!
In the narrow beams of straw-mottled sunlight streaming through the barred midship hatch, men were hurling up what looked like knives and bolts. A few of these objects catapulted out successfully, but most either fell short or hit metal, dropped back down—and were relaunched. Did any strike a devil?
Thump! Thump! Thump!
A knot of men farther along the walkway appeared to be clobbering the ceiling with a heavy pole.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
Light rimmed the planks under assault, and despite the resounding crash of the aft hatch slamming shut, I felt a sliver of hope that we might yet prevail. Determined to help make good that hope, I wedged Scholar Mok snugly among the men packing the platform.
Thump!
The battering ram smashed through the ceiling to cheers, a brilliant shaft of light, a rush of fresh salt air— torrents of water, bellows, squawks, and yowls. I jumped into the seething mass of men in the walkway.
“Watch out!”
The blow to the side of my head was glancing, and I did not sink into the fray but sprawled on top, flailing like an upturned turtle. Buffeted, clawed, and kicked by men who were similarly struggling to right themselves, I rolled as the ship lunged—saw the force of the water gushing down was preventing anybody from climbing out.
“Cut that pisser!”
Makeshift spears thrust through the hole fell short of the hose.
“Smash the pump!”
How? The ladder to the waterpump in the hold passed through the between-decks, but it was on the other side of thick iron bars.
“Let me through!”
“Make way for the boxing master.”
Here was something I could do. Crawling into an already crammed lower berth, I folded into myself so more men could worm in, opening a path for the boxing master.
I HOPED BUT did not believe the boxing master could wrench open the thick iron bars. Sure boxing masters possess superhuman strength and can move like swimming dragons, stare like watchful monkeys, sit like crouching tigers, turn like hovering eagles. In our market town I’d even seen boxing masters, armed with nothing except these techniques, soundly defeat opponents brandishing swords and spears. If this boxing master possessed these skills and strength, however, wouldn’t he have broken free of his captors long ago? At the very least, his expertise would’ve made him stand out during the takeover of the ship.
True, I’d only caught snatches of the fighting, and now the platform I’d squashed onto was sagging, the one above, too, knocking me into. . . .
Sticky dampness.
The loathsome taste of sludge.
Silence pricked with loud hurt.
Huzzas.
Unspeakable pain.