The Mark of the Golden Dragon (2 page)

My Jolly Roger flag is draped at the foot of the bed and my gold-on-green silk Chinese dragon pennant floats over the top of it. I place my right hand on Jaimy's as we all sing out the song, but I do not place my left hand on Joseph's, even though I sort of want to. No, after all, we can't have a jealous male duel right here right now, and over my silly self, now, can we...?

Complications, complications ... Life used to be so simple...

Although we left the shores of Australia weeks ago, we continue to celebrate our deliverance from captivity. That is, some of us do, anyway—myself and my officers, and James Emerson Fletcher, Captain of the
Cerberus,
with his crew of recently freed Irish lads, many of whom were former crew members of my first ship, the bold, sleek, and ultimately doomed
Emerald.
Joseph Jared, Commander of the third ship in our fleet, HMS
Dart,
a neat and trim thirty-gun sloop of war, joins us in this celebration, but he is not a recently freed convict. Oh, no. He is, in fact, in charge of the Royal Navy ship that was assigned to escort the East India Company's ship
Cerberus
to New South Wales and then bring her back. Therein lies a further complication because the
Cerberus
is no longer in the possession of the East India Company but is being held now by James Emerson Fletcher and his crew of Irish rogues.

It was what Mr. Yancy Beauregard Cantrell, renowned Mississippi gambler, used to call a "Mexican stand-off"...all participants involved standing with guns pointing at each other's heads, waiting for someone to make the first deadly move. Something had to be done.

I called a conference. When all were gathered in my cabin, I said, "Gentlemen, please, we must come to some sort of agreement. Captain Jared, you may speak first..."

Jared stood and said, "Most of you are escaped convicts. I am honor bound to take you back..."

That got him a low growl from those present, who did, after all, outnumber him in the way of armed ships.

"...however, I am open to suggestions." He sat back down.

Then my good and very intelligent John Higgins, the very soul of reason, spoke up:

"I know, Mr. Jared, how deeply you hold your concept of honor as a Royal Navy officer. However ... consider this: Your initial duty was to escort the
Cerberus
to New South Wales, then back to England. Is that true?"

Jared nodded. "That was our mission."

Higgins fussed with some papers on the tabletop and continued.

"The
Cerberus
did, indeed, go to Australia and did discharge its cargo of felons as ordered. It is now ready to go back to England, under your protection, as per your original charter. So you have fulfilled your duty in that regard. Is that true?"

Jared considered this, and then said, "True."

"Now, as to the
Lorelei Lee
..." Higgins continued, "I believe, Captain Jared, there is nothing in your orders concerning that particular craft. Is that right?"

"Also true."

"Well, then, this is Faber Shipping Worldwide's modest proposal: That we all proceed back to European waters. Once there, the
Lorelei Lee
will go back to her home port of Boston, and the
Cerberus
and the
Dart
will go into British waters and any disputes between their respective captains will be settled there, and in an honorable fashion."

Higgins again paused and looked about. He cleared his throat.

"Ahem. There are further considerations: It is a long way back to England, and we are a formidable force—three swift ships, trained crews, and sixty-two guns, with powder and ball to match. It is to be expected that we will encounter many French and Spanish ships, and we are still at war with those nations ... Prizes, Sirs ... many rich prizes..."

There was a low growl of avarice all around the table, and the deal was done.

It was an uneasy truce, but, for now, it seems to be holding. Mr. Joseph Jared will have to make a decision when we get back to European waters—one of those "friendship versus duty" decisions—and I, for one, am not looking forward to the outcome.

Complications, complications...

***

"What means song, Memsahib? Who is Sahib Nelson and why do you sing of his dear blood?"

I look down into the deep dark eyes of Ravi, my little East Indian boy, gazing up at me. He is dressed in the white loincloth in which I first met him back on that street in Bombay. He holds a tray of full wineglasses, and eager hands reach out to grab their stems as he passes them around.

Grateful for a moment to deflect the ardent adult male gazes aimed in my direction, I direct my full attention to Ravi. I run my hand through his black locks and beam my present contentment down upon the little fellow. I am back in command of my lovely
Lorelei Lee,
Jaimy and all my friends are about me, and all's right with my watery world, for now.
So why not live in the moment,
I say. I want to throw my booted foot up on the table in sheer exuberant contentment, but I don't do it, being sort of a lady, and all.

"Well, young Sahib Ravi, it was like this," I say, scooping up the last glass on his tray and lifting it to my lips. "Several years ago there was a great naval battle off Cape Trafalgar, on the coast of Spain. It was between us Brits, with assorted Scots, Welsh, and Irishmen, against the might of Napoleon Bonaparte, Emperor of France. Over seventy warships were involved. All the men at this table were there and qualified to wear this medal—"

"Wasn't my fault you dumped me off back in London before the big fight!" laments Mairead, tossing her copper locks about in mock resentment. "Or I'da had a foine medal, too, like the one you wear, you brazen hussy!"

Laughter all around.

I grin and look down at the Trafalgar medal that rests on the chest of my navy blue lieutenant's jacket, gold braid all around. True, I did get one of the medals that were struck to commemorate that great event, despite my being female, thanks to the efforts of Captain Trumbull, the officer who had relieved me of command of the HMS
Wolverine.

"Yes, Mairead," I say. "And had you been on board, I'm sure the French would have been vanquished all the sooner!"

More laughter, but I'm not altogether kidding. Mairead
is
a fiery, fierce thing, and she would have given her best had she been there. I know it.

"Anyway, Ravi," I continue when the place subsides a bit. "This here gent"—and I pick up the medal and show him the man depicted there in profile—"was Admiral Lord Horatio Nelson, of the Royal Navy, and he led our fleet to victory that day against superior odds." I put the medal back flat upon my chest. "Had he not done so and we had been defeated, then Napoleon could have freely landed his troops on the east coast of England. At the best, there would have been many very bloody battles, and at the worst, we would all now be wearing French uniforms and Boney would be seated in Windsor Castle."

That gets a low growl from the Brits present.

"So, Ravi, to continue ... At the end of the great battle, there was a French marine high up in the rigging of a French First-Rate man-of-war, and he shot down upon the officers who stood on the quarterdeck of HMS
Victory
and wounded Lord Nelson most severely."

Ravi's eyes grow wider and wider.

"And then, Missy Memsahib?"

"And then his men carried him down to his bed and laid him upon it, and there he died in great pain from a bullet in his spine, his last words being 'Come kiss me, Hardy, if you love me,' Captain Hardy being the commander of his flagship and his longtime friend, y'see."

"Very sad, Miss, but does not explain song," says the persistent Ravi.

"I'm getting to that, boy, just hold on. Ahem ... So then, what to do with Lord Nelson's body? The naval officers present thought long and hard about it. He was much too important to be simply tossed over the side like any ordinary dead seaman. After all, he had saved Mother England herself, so it was decided that his body should be placed in a large cask and that cask be filled with rum to preserve his honored remains."

"Indian way much neater. Build fire, then
poof.
"

"I know, Ravi, but that is not our way," I continue. "And so it was done—Nelson's body was stripped down and placed in the cask, and the barrel was filled to the top with the best rum the ship had onboard, and HMS
Victory
headed back to England, bearing its sad burden."

"And so that is end of story, Missy?" asks Ravi. I can tell he is not totally satisfied with my explanation.

"Well, not quite, Ravi," I say. "There was one problem with the cask into which Nelson was put. There was a small spigot at the bottom ..."

Snorts of suppressed laughter all around.

"So?" asks Ravi, mystified.

"So, my beautiful little boy." I chortle, gathering up the lad and hugging him to me. "When the ship got to England and the funeral was prepared and the cask was opened"—a bit of a pause here—"and when the cask was opened ... the body of Lord Nelson was still in there"—another pause—"but the rum was not!"

Roars of laughter fill the cabin.
Well told, Jacky!

"But what happened to it?" asks my innocent little lad.

"Uh ... the
Victory's
sailors had snuck down in the dark of night and opened the spigot to pour themselves cups of the rum, and they drank it till it was all gone."

Ravi pulls away from me, aghast. "But that is disgusting!"

I pull him back to me, shaking with laughter. "If you think
that
is disgusting, Ravi, then you do not know British sailors!"

More gales of raucous laughter.

"And so you see, little one, a cup of Nelson's blood is another way of saying 'a cup of rum.' And sometimes having a bit of a drink is called 'tapping the Admiral'! Now go do your job and fill more cups with Nelson's blood and pass them around!"

Ravi, thoroughly revolted, I am sure, to the depths of his Hindu soul, scurries off to do his duty. I turn back to the ... situation ... at hand. We are essentially becalmed and so I have no real reason to deny Jaimy my bed this evening, and oh, I do so want it to be so ... But what of Jared? What of discipline?

Complications, complications...

While I'm dwelling on how I'm going to deal with this, I notice that Lee Chi, who is usually a cheerful sort of Chinese eunuch, is uncharacteristically nervous. He has been serving the food under Higgins's watchful eye, but he has also gone to the door several times to peer out, coming back each time looking more worried. He was given to me by the Chinese pirate Cheng Shih, who had, well ... ahem ... taken a bit of a shine to me when I was her prisoner on our way down to Botany Bay.
Quite a bit of a shine,
I recall with a slight blush coming to my cheeks.

It sure is hot in here,
I'm thinking as I stick my finger in my collar and pull it away from my neck. I rather regret being dressed in my naval finery—heavy jacket, lacy shirt, tight britches, and black boots. But I do like to show off, especially with Jaimy by my side, and it's my duty as Grand Mistress of the Proceedings to look good and to sparkle and to be gay and so lend joy to all at my table.

I notice Lee Chi whispering something to Ravi, who has just come back into the cabin, and I break off telling a humorous story and motion for the lad to bring his tray to my side.

"What's up, Ravi?" I say, cutting my eyes to the Chinaman, who stands nervously in a corner. "What's wrong with Mr. Lee?"

"Sahib Lee teach me some of his words ..."

"Yes, dear, go on," I say.

"He say
tai
means 'big' ..."

I nod at that, anxious to get back into the high hilarity of the evening, however hot it is growing in here.

"...and
phoon
means 'wind.'"

"So?"

I look up at Lee Chi and he points outside and says one word.

"Typhoon."

Uh-oh...

The party is over.

"Get back to your ships!" I shout, yanking off my uniform and toeing off my boots. "There is a mighty storm to the west that's headed for us! Hurry!"

But I need not have said anything, for as soon as Joseph Jared sees that low line of pitch-black clouds forming up on the horizon, his leg is over the rail of the
Lee
and he is back in his launch, heading toward the
Dart.

He is followed closely by Jaimy Fletcher, but not before I grab him, as I'm pulling off my dress trousers, and plant a good one on his mouth.

"Please be careful, Jaimy," I breathe in his ear. "Get down all the canvas you can and quickly! I have heard that tropical typhoons are just as bad as our hurricanes, maybe even worse, and—"

"I know what to do, dearest," he says, wrapping his arms about me and holding me to him. "I know what to do about my ship, but I do not know what to do about you."

"One more kiss, Jaimy, oh please..."

"Oh, God, how I wanted to—"

"I know, Jaimy, me, too! But now you must go."