The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë (49 page)

Thus ends Branwell’s letter. His writing is shaky and almost illegible on the last page, as though he’d lost the strength to write. Let an extract from Emily’s diary complete his story.

T
HE WIND QUICKENED, SLAPPING WAVES HIGHER AGAINST THE SHIP, which rocked fitfully and nauseously; I heard the masts and rigging creaking, and the sails flapping, all through the night. When at last the rising sun spread a crimson sheen across the ocean, I wondered how many more mornings I would live to see.

The children and I spent an awful day together. Hitchman brought us food that none of us had the appetite to eat. Bertie alternately raged and pouted. Vicky said, “It’s going to be all right, isn’t it, Miss Brontë?” I did my best to calm her growing anxiety, even though I was loath to give her false hope.

Afternoon had lapsed into a cloudy, blustery twilight when there began a commotion above us. Voices called in English and Chinese. We heard thuds and scrambling noises as cargo and persons came aboard. With much consternation I deduced that the rest of Kuan’s retinue had arrived by boat. Next there was a cacophonous metallic racket of the anchor being hauled up from the water. A loud rumbling began in the depths of the ship. I smelled smoke and heard steam hissing. The engine roared to life; its mighty pulse throbbed. The ship began to move.

Bertie shouted, “No!”

He pounded and kicked the door; he sobbed with rage. Vicky uttered not a sound, but tears trickled down her face. The ship gathered speed, its great wheels churning the water. I experienced the wrenching sensation of being torn from all that was familiar and dear. An invisible, impenetrable barrier slammed down behind me, sealing me off from my past life, its joys and woes. Papa, Emily, Anne, Branwell, and Mr. Slade were lost to me, as were all dreams for the future. My unfinished book would remain unfinished; I would never write another. The voice that I had labored to make heard by the world would be silenced forever.

Vicky huddled tight against my side. When Bertie realized that his hysterics were futile, he quieted and came to sit by me. I put my arms around the children and mutely prayed for the ship to reach China safely even with myself no longer on it. I beseeched God to let the Crown negotiate the return of Vicky and Bertie even if I perished. They embodied not only generations of royal ancestry; they, like all children, represented mankind’s hope for the future. That they should die for offenses committed by their elder was a sin most grievous.

The sea and the horizon flowed past our window, their emptiness relieved only by occasional, faraway ships, until darkness fell. I knew not how many miles we traveled. Silver lights from the moon and stars flecked the choppy waves. The engine roared and the wheels churned without cessation. I had the opportunity to realize that there was even more to be lost than I’d initially thought.

The family Brontë had never had much in the way of worldly possessions or status. But we had taken a quiet pride in knowing that our name was respectable. Our personal honor had conferred upon us a sense of value. But when the world learned that I had been party to the kidnapping, I would be forever reviled. Even if my family survived their imprisonment, they would forever be tainted by their association with me, the name Brontë ruined. They would live out their lives beneath a cloud of shame. Furthermore, they were not the only ones who would suffer on my account. With myself dead and beyond punishment, Mr. Slade would take the blame for our mission’s disastrous conclusion. He, whom I also loved, would surely hang.

Suddenly Vicky tensed beside me and said, “What’s that sound?”

“I don’t hear anything,” I said.

But Vicky’s face brightened with hope. “I hear ships.”

“So do I!” Bertie said. “They’re coming for us.”

Now I heard what their acute young ears had discerned first: a distant thunder carrying across the ocean. We grouped around the window. Clusters of lights came into view. As they neared, they became four steamships lit by lanterns, puffing smoke. Their noise grew louder. Shouts erupted on our ship’s upper deck: The crew had sighted the fleet. The engine roared louder and throbbed harder; the paddlewheels plowed a bumpy, accelerating swath across the water, but our pursuers gradually gained on us. Our ship tilted off course, throwing me and the children sideways. Again and again this happened while Kuan tried to maneuver away from the fleet. My stomach lurched with every roll. Vicky and Bertie shrieked as we tumbled onto the floor. For an instant I thought the ship might keel over and sink.

The engine’s noise dwindled; the ship slowed, regaining balance. The racket from the wheels stopped. We glided to a halt, rocking and tossing upon the waves. The children and I peered out the window. Two ships were standing afloat near us. Their idle engines rumbled like tigers ready to pounce. Armed soldiers stood on their decks; guns protruded from their hulls. Banners fluttering on their masts bore the insignia of the Royal Navy.

“Mama and Papa have sent them to rescue us!” Vicky cried.

Tears of relief pricked my eyes. I breathed a prayer of fervent thanks, even as I wondered how this miracle had come to be.

A voice thundered from one of the ships: “Attention, Mr. Kuan! In the name of the British Crown, I order you to surrender!”

I recognized that voice. It belonged to Mr. Slade! Now I spotted him on a naval ship amidst the soldiers. Jubilation swelled my heart. With his keen, determined features lit by the lanterns and his black hair wild in the wind, he looked to me like a Spartan warrior come to rescue Helen of Troy.

“I will not surrender,” came Kuan’s voice, his tone fearless and adamant. “Let me pass.”

“You cannot escape,” Mr. Slade called. “You’re surrounded. We’re coming aboard to take the children and Miss Brontë. I advise you to cooperate.”

The ship on which he stood rumbled its engine louder and approached nearer to us, huffing steam and smoke. Kuan said, “Come no closer, or I’ll open fire.”

From above me I heard the scrape and creak of mechanical devices moving and heavy wheels rolling: Kuan’s crew was opening the gun ports and positioning cannon. I heard Mr. Slade reply, “You would be a fool to attack us. We have far greater fire power than you do.”

“You would be a fool to attack me while I hold your royal prince and princess captive,” Kuan said. “How unfortunate for you if they should be killed in a battle.”

“We’ll not allow you to take them to China,” Mr. Slade said. Although I knew he must fear for the children, his voice remained calm; his determination matched Kuan’s. “We’re coming to fetch them and Miss Brontë.”

“I’ll kill them first,” Kuan said.

Vicky gasped. “He isn’t really going to hurt us, is he, Miss Brontë?”

“He can’t,” Bertie declared.

But Kuan was doomed to die for his crimes whether or not he surrendered, whether or not he spared us. He had nothing to lose by resisting. Furthermore, his pride would never allow him to surrender, and he would take us down with him to spite his enemies.

The ship on which Mr. Slade stood advanced on ours. Sudden, thunderous booms jarred my bones, deafening my ears, and I smelled acrid gunpowder. Vicky and Bertie screamed and hugged me. The floor below us shook with each explosion. Kuan had fired his cannons. Smoke wafted from Mr. Slade’s ship, where troops scrambled about the deck. I heard them shouting as volleys of gunshots filled the night. I could no longer see Mr. Slade, who was lost in the chaos. On the other naval ship visible to me, men floundered beneath a fallen mast. Sparks flared from rifles as the navy troops’ bullets cracked against our ship, and I gathered the children as far from the window as possible. During an instant’s lull in the din, I heard Kuan call, “Bring up the hostages.”

If there ever was a time for me to act, it was now. I could not wait out the battle in the vain hope that Providence would favor us. Our rescuers were themselves in peril, and Kuan might kill us before they could board his ship. Determined to keep us out of his hands, I grabbed the rod I had hidden under my bunk. Inserting it between the door and the frame, I pried. The gunshots and cannon fire continued. Footsteps hastened down the staircase towards us.

“They’re coming. Hurry up!” shouted Bertie.

“Exert yourself, Miss Brontë,” Vicky pleaded.

Although I strained mightily, the door did not budge. Someone was working the lock. I sprang backward, the rod still gripped in my hands, shielding the children behind me. The door flew open, and a Chinese crewman burst into the cabin. His face was savage; he held a pistol. Vicky and Bertie screamed. Compelled by a sudden swift, primitive instinct, I swung the rod at the man and struck him hard across the face. I felt the sensation of flesh yielding, bones breaking. Blood poured from his nose, and his eyes went blank as he crashed to the floor.

Never before had I struck down anyone, but I had no time to marvel at my deed, for Nick appeared at the threshold. Mute and menacing, he stepped towards us over the inert Chinaman. I swung the rod, but he caught it, wrenched it from my hands, and tossed it away. He reached for me, when suddenly Bertie hurled himself at Nick. The boy pummeled Nick while screeching at the top of his lungs. When Nick tried to push him away, Bertie sank his teeth into Nick’s calf. Nick yowled—the first sound I’d ever heard from him. He punched Bertie and pulled at his hair, but Bertie growled and hung on, like a dog gnawing a bone. He and Nick fell down together. Vicky snatched up the rod. She beat Nick soundly about the head until he lay motionless. Bertie sprung up, Nick’s blood trickling from his mouth. He and Vicky cheered in triumph. No king among their ancestors could have fought a battle more valiantly.