— 11 —
The old master, Zhao Ning Qiang, sipped his hot green tea, observing the sunrise and the morning dew that dripped from the palm leaves. He sat on a porch made of bamboo—a porch he had built himself more than thirty years prior, just as he had built his house, dug his well, and farmed ten acres of rice. He had, in fact, not one possession that either he or his wife had not crafted themselves. The clay mug warming his hands, the tan robe on his body, even his sandals made of cowhide. Purchasing something was, to him, a ridiculous notion. What could he ever need that he himself could not build or make? And, if there was such a thing, he couldn’t see a use for it.
He stared at the view of the valley where he was born. It was the valley of his parents and their parents and so on, reaching as far back in his lineage as anyone could remember. This was the only land he had ever known, and this never bothered him. He never felt the need to travel or to explore new countries. He had so much still to learn about his own land. So much still surprised him. Just yesterday he discovered an anthill filled with tens of thousands of red ants. He sat in wonderment watching the ants work and organize, scavenging the droppings of the nearby jungle for food. He was constantly in awe of the world around him.
The tea was a bit hot this morning and he allowed it to cool.
At first, he felt a quiet disturbance. Something in his body ached. Something was not right. He was in tune with the rhythms of the land. When something was foreign, or different, or just not right, he felt it. An instinct, developed over years of inhabiting a land so completely that it was as much a part of him as his arm or leg.
He listened, and after five minutes, he heard it.
Horses. Riders. Maybe three or four.
They were coming over the ridge and would be on him in minutes.
Ning didn’t run. He didn’t really even move. His body just shifted as a snake might prepare to strike. His shoulders hunched down a bit. His eyes lowered into slits. He watched the horizon carefully.
And he sipped his tea.
A tiny smile formed on his face.
Finally, the riders—four of them—appeared, about one hundred yards from his house. They were not dressed in the style of this region or any region close to him. Slowing to a trot, they rode to the porch and began circling him. All of them were armed with long swords, sheathed at their sides of their mounts.
Dirt kicked up from the horses’ hooves as the riders made a spectacle of their entrance, purposely throwing their horses around like a heavyweight fighter warming up in the corner. The horses’ heads nodded and snorted, their long necks sweating in the heat. Their legs kicked high, their tails swiftly moving back and forth.
The riders eyed the man and expected him to jump up or run or say something. He said nothing. He simply sat drinking his tea.
Finally the leader, tired of this game, dismounted, grabbed his scabbard, and walked up to the porch. Stopping four feet in front of Ning, his posture was aggressive, like a predator—legs spread wider than shoulder length, chest out, arms down and exposed.
Ning appeared defenseless. In his arrogance, the bandit thought the old man to be a victim. The hunted.
That was the bandit’s first mistake.
Before even uttering a word, Ning had produced a dagger from beneath his robe, risen to his feet, and slashed the throat of the bandit leader.
Blood spurted from the man’s throat. He fell to his knees, grabbing his throat, blood gushing through his fingers. The wound had been perfectly executed—six inches wide, just under the larynx, cleanly puncturing the artery.
Slowly, the bandit rose to his feet in a stupor, stumbling in the dirt. In desperation, he tried to get away, walking just fifteen feet before dropping to his belly—dead.
The other bandits watched in amazement at the quick death of their leader.
That was their mistake.
Ning drew the dagger behind his back, aimed, and with perfect accuracy threw the dagger into the throat of a bandit directly to his left. The man pulled up on the reins of his horse, causing the animal to rear on its hind legs, and the bandit fell, dead before he hit the ground.
Quickly, Ning picked up a nearby bamboo stick almost seven feet in length. It was not there by accident. He took three steps and jabbed the hard staff into the eye socket of a bandit on his right. The man fell to the ground and, in a split second, Ning brought the staff down, crushing the bandit’s skull.
The last bandit remaining, disorganized and completely taken by surprise, attempted an attack. He kicked his horse in the ribs, sprinted forward, unsheathed his sword from its scabbard, brought it over his head, charging the old man at full speed.
Easily taking two steps to his right, Ning lowered his bamboo staff and caught the man square in the jaw, breaking it. He took a step back, whirled the staff around, and brought it down full force on the back of the man’s skull, breaking his neck.
Ning finally stopped. The horses, sensing his calm, slowed their pace. Steam rose from their breath. It had taken Ning less than a minute to take apart their masters. The horses looked to the old man with a kind of awe. The men had not been kind to these horses. They had beaten and whipped them unmercifully. Ning, however, gathered their reins and spoke to them softly. They sensed his kindness as he led them to his small stable in the back.
That’s when he heard it—the unmistakable sound of a crying baby.
It was coming from the gray mare.
The old man cautiously went to the horse. On its saddle was a large hump covered with a blanket. Lifting the blanket, the old man saw a small baby gazing up him with large brown eyes. The baby had been a bit suffocated by the blanket and, once uncovered, immediately stopped crying.
Astonished, the old man untied the baby cradle and took the baby in his hands. He and his wife had never borne children, in spite of their efforts. His wife, away visiting her relatives across the valley, would no doubt be overjoyed when she returned. She had always wanted children and now an orphan had dropped into their laps.
Cradling the baby and rocking it back and forth, he could see it was a small girl.
“I will call you Zijuan after my mother,” he whispered to her, smiling.
The years passed and the old man and woman raised Zijuan as they would their own. They loved her, but could never force themselves to tell her the truth—that she could be the baby of a bandit killed by her adoptive father. They simply loved her and treated her as their own daughter. Her mother taught her to read and write and gave her an education. Her father taught her to fish, to farm rice, and, above all, to fight. By age ten, she could handle a staff better than most grown men. By fifteen, she was equally as deadly with her hands and her feet. At twenty, she could defeat ten men in a fair fight.
Zijuan was, however, a wild child. She frequently wandered outside the safety of their valley and would sometimes be gone for as long as a week at a time. By the age of eighteen, she enjoyed exploring the coastline and camping in the wilderness. She even ventured to some cities and enjoyed sights and sounds far different from the slow pace of their valley. She could always handle herself and, on more than one occasion, had broken the bones of some poor fool who thought her a harmless girl.
She found herself in the city of Jiangsu one Sunday morning. She had just left a spice market and now sat by herself at a café eating quail eggs and roast duck. It was, for the most part, an ordinary Sunday, with the hustle and bustle of people doing their weekend shopping. She smiled while watching a family of four haggle with a fisherman over the price of a brook trout.
Out of the corner of her eye she noticed something not right. Something out of the ordinary.
In the back alley of an apartment building, two men shuffled a child through a door. It happened quickly—maybe half a second—but Zijuan could see there was something undeniably criminal about the scene. The men didn’t appear to be the sort to have children. They were hard and dressed in shabby clothes.
After paying for her meal, Zijuan slowly walked to the door of the apartment building. Opening it, she peeked inside. A large hallway, barely lit with candles, extended for about fifty feet. A dank smell of mold filled the hallway. It felt cold—not just the temperature, but the entire feeling of the place. It emanated evil. Zijuan felt this strongly, but decided to enter anyway. She produced a small dagger from her waist belt and held it in her right hand.
The corridor was long and, oddly, there were no windows or doors on either side. Shadows danced from the torch flames that produced a little light. Otherwise, the corridor was dark and still.
Slowly she walked until she saw another door and the very end of the hallway. As she stepped closer, she heard muffled voices from behind the door. At first, they were barely murmurs but grew louder as she approached the closed door. Putting her ear to the door, she could distinctly hear a man’s voice. He was counting or something, but the sound was muffled for her to be certain. She listened for a few minutes, and the man kept counting. Once in a while she heard other shouting.
Then, she heard it. The inexplicable sound of a child’s scream.
She had two choices. She could leave and live the rest of her life knowing she could have helped an innocent child. Or, she could open that door and deal with whatever lay behind it.
Concealed in the small of her back was an eighteen-inch staff made of petrified bamboo. She placed the staff in her right hand, held the dagger in her left, took a deep breath, and opened the door.
Directly in front of her was a guard with his back turned to her. Behind the guard were dozens of seated men in a large, dank room. In the center were a blindfolded girl about ten years old and an auctioneer. The girl’s hands looked to be tied behind her back.
Quickly Zijuan whirled her staff in a three-sixty and hit the guard squarely in the back of the head. He fell, face first on the floor with a thud. The room grew quiet. All eyes stared at her as she slowly took three steps inside. Her eyes shifted from right to left, scanning the room. Another guard, this one bigger, charged at her from the far-right corner of the room.
Waiting, she watched the movements of the running guard and instantly calculated the length of his steps and the speed of his run.
The guard kept running until he was only a few feet from Zijuan. He lunged at her, no doubt thinking his overpowering strength would easily subdue a slight woman.
In the time it takes a hummingbird to flutter its wings, Zijuan brought the staff straight up, where it met the man’s forehead right between the eyes. He stumbled, momentarily stunned, and she drew the staff twelve inches back, bent her back leg, and flung the staff around like a baton, smashing it down on his skull.
Blood dripped from his forehead as he dropped to his knees. His eyes swelled with tears. Before he had a moment to act, Zijuan jabbed the staff solidly into the man’s ear, breaking his eardrum and knocking him unconscious.
She gingerly stepped over his body and approached the auctioneer.
Everyone in the room stared at her.
“You all have ten seconds to clear out. Then, I will begin taking each and every one of you apart,” she sneered.
Nobody moved. There were maybe twenty men in the room and she intimidated every last one of them.
“One,” she began.
“Two.
“Three.”
“What about our purchases? We paid good money for these slaves,” a fat man yelled out, his fist in the air and his long, full moustache cascading down each side of his lips.
She smiled at the suggestion and, before even finishing her thought, had broken the auctioneer’s neck with a blow from her staff. He crumpled to the floor—dead.
“Whatever bargain you had with this man died with this man.
“Four,” she continued.
The men began to scramble for the door, some jumping over the others.
“Five.”
More scrambling and clawing ensued, until someone finally opened the door and they began spilling out into the hallway.
“Six.
“Seven.
“Eight.”
By the time she’d gotten to eight, the room had emptied.
The little girl stood still. She’d stopped crying. Zijuan quickly untied the girl’s blindfold and cut the rope that bound her wrists. She could see the rope had dug into the child’s skin, scraping and tearing it until a bloody red band was left where the rope had been tied.
The girl was not Asian. She had brown skin and though her face was dirty, her big hazel eyes gazed up at Zijuan. She wore rags as garments.
“Hello,” Zijuan said.
The girl just looked at her. It was obvious she didn’t understand a word of what Zijuan was saying.
“My name is Zijuan. Zijuan,” she repeated.
“Ziwah,” the little girl whispered.
Zijuan began to wipe the girl’s cheeks with the fluff of her shirt; multiple layers of dirt came off. This was the dirtiest child Zijuan had ever seen.
The little girl was obviously in shock. She stared at Zijuan and then slowly pointed.
“What? What is it?” Zijuan asked.
The girl continued to point to the far corner of the room, which was mostly concealed by shadows. The little girl took Zijuan’s hand and led her to the corner.
An outline of a door presented itself.
Zijuan slowly unlocked the hinge, opened the door, and saw thirty pairs of tiny eyes staring up at her.
None of the children was older than twelve.
The children quietly stared at her. Their features resembled those of the girl she had rescued—none of them looked to be Chinese.
“Come, come,” she motioned to them.
Taking the girl by the hand, she continued to motion for them to follow her.
“Come, come.”
Cautiously, the children stood and followed. A couple of them had their hands tied—these were the ones who had already been sold. Zijuan quickly untied them and motioned for the entire group to follow her.
Once out of the building, the group of them ran across the waterfront, to the wonderment of onlookers. Shoppers stopped and pointed and merchants talked amongst themselves.
Zijuan knew she must get the children out of town and into safety. No doubt some of the buyers had police connections and would soon be looking for her and the children. Hurriedly, she shuffled them down a path that led out of the city. The group walked in single file for an hour. The children said nothing, dutifully following their newfound liberator.
The children were lost and hungry, yet grateful to be free. Each of them looked at Zijuan with a look of admiration and deference, as a Catholic schoolgirl might look upon a saint.
Zijuan was unaccustomed to this sort of attention, but she couldn’t help but be humbled and warmed by the innocence of these desperate children. A tiny girl took her hand and looked at Zijuan as a baby kitten gazes at her mother.
“Z-I-J-U-A-N,” she said phonetically, saying her name slowly so the little girl would understand.
“S-A-N-A-A,” the little girl whispered and Zijuan smiled.
The group walked in single file without saying a word. No doubt they were starving, but had apparently learned to ignore their hunger. Zijuan enjoyed the warmth and tenderness of little Sanaa’s hand. She couldn’t have been older than six years old. Her long, dirty brown hair dangled over her eyes like a lazy curtain hangs down from a windowsill. Her dress was barely a rag, covered with soot and grease. In spite of her filthy exterior, she remained a sparkling and curious little girl.
Zijuan marched the orphan train for another three hours, until she began to see fatigue in some of their faces. Noticing the sun would be down in another hour, she decided to stop for the night in a clearing by a stream. Working diligently, she showed the children how to make their own beds out of nearby palm leaves. She deliberately established their camp under a stand of hackberry trees in case the heavens opened up and drenched the group with rain.
Next, she separated the children by gender—boys in one area and girls in another—and had them take swims and wash themselves. Her Chinese upbringing demanded proper hygiene.
While the group bathed in the stream, she prepared a large fire from a bundle of firewood, hoping to keep them warm throughout the night. Taking care to pick only dry wood, she enlisted the help of the children until the stack of wood stood three feet high.
Finally, she noticed some wild kiwi trees and goji berries. She pointed to the fruit and berries, motioning with her fingers and mouth that these were edible. The children then went about in search of food, bringing their finds back to the fire area.
By dusk, Zijuan had managed to build a raging fire and portioned out fruit and berries for each child. They ate in silence, happy to receive some kind of nutrition in their starving bellies.
In the glow of the fire, Zijuan looked into their eyes and, for the first time in her life, felt a genuine sense of purpose. Up to this point, she had always been searching. Now, she had found something she truly believed in. The Creator had placed a bushel of homeless children in her care and she would not let them be thrown to the wolves of the world.
After dinner, before each child slowly fell asleep, Zijuan went to each of them, placed a giant palm leaf over their tiny bodies, kissed them goodnight, and told them a Chinese prayer. This was the first time many of them had ever felt the safety of an adult who genuinely cared for them. Although it was a little cold and they were outside, every child fell into a deep, restful sleep.
Zijuan, however, could not sleep. She did not know what to do. Could she raise a group of foreign children in her village? The local villagers would not take kindly to such an intrusion. She didn’t know anything about them. Not their country, or their names, or even what language they spoke. How could she return them home?
She gazed up at the sky full of stars and suddenly felt at peace. She did not have the answers yet, but that was not important right now. She knew she would eventually find an answer in all this.
The following morning she awoke early to pick some berries. She even managed to trap a hare, build a fire, and provide a couple of mouthfuls of protein to the children, who were most appreciative.
And then they started the long journey to her village.
It was a two-day walk. Zijuan kept the group off the main roads to avoid drawing attention. They camped and built fires and foraged for food along the way. Zijuan was able to catch some wild trout for a feast on the second night.
On the third day, the caravan arrived at Zijuan’s parents’ home, dragging their tired bodies, relieved to be stopping at last. Her father was tending to a crop of rice when the group appeared over the hillside. At first, he saw the head of his daughter and then, slowly, the little bodies of dozens of children. He dropped his rake, called to his wife, and they both greeted the group.
“What is this? Who are these children?” her mother asked.
“I’m too tired to explain. We need to eat and sleep and then I’ll tell you everything,” an exhausted Zijuan said.
Her parents fed the children a hearty meal of stew and rice. Each child ate at least three courses and then fell into a deep slumber, the group bundled together around a fire in the living room.
Ning was a naturally patient man. His years gave him a certain amount of wisdom in worldly matters. He knew there was a story behind the children; he simply waited for his daughter to explain, which she did, after a nice meal and a nap.
“What are you going to do?” he finally asked.
“I do not know. The children cannot stay here. It would create too much of a distraction,” she said.
Her father nodded his head in agreement. Although he was considered a leader of his village, he also understood the insular nature of his people. They did not appreciate outsiders. They were simple and, in many ways, very ignorant and racist. There was harmony, but it was delicate.
“I think, perhaps, you should consider returning them to their homeland,” he finally said.
This was quite unexpected. Most fathers, with all their good intentions, attempted to suffocate and protect their daughters.
“You have always been wild, Zijuan. Since you were a very young girl, I’ve known this village is too small for your wandering heart. I think, perhaps, your destiny lies outside our valley. I think these children were placed in your care for a reason.”
Zijuan listened to her father. It was true, she had always sought adventure. It was something deeper. She had always longed for a meaning to her life that her parents couldn’t provide—a purpose higher than herself.
“How would I do that?”
“Find out where the children came from and then go to Shanghai and find a ship.”
“None of the children speak our language. I have no idea where they live. And what ship would be willing to take a group this large?”
“Zijuan, your greatest trait is your resourcefulness. Surely you will find a way.”
That night Zijuan slept outside, alone with her thoughts. All she had ever known, except for her little adventures, was this valley. It represented safety and familiarity. But she knew her father was right. She could never be satisfied in such a place. She found no contentment in gardening or fishing or tending to rice paddies. Her heart yearned for the unknown.
She decided to leave for Shanghai in three days. Provisions would have to be made. She would require a wagon with an ox for the journey and enough food to feed the children for a week. This would require money she didn’t have.
Zijuan slept little that night. In the morning she told her father and mother her plans. Both nodded solemnly in agreement. Her mother had been against the plan from the beginning. Such a young girl out in the world! As a mother, she was naturally protective, but understood the wisdom of the plan. Zijuan had always been uncontrollable, even since she was a small girl. It is a kind of crime to hold a person against their true nature, and she wanted nothing more than for her daughter to follow her soul and heart.
“I have some money for you, Zijuan. I don’t know if it will be enough to get you a ship, but hopefully it will,” Ning told her.
Zijuan was both eternally grateful and tremendously sad. She loved her parents more than anything or anyone. To leave them would break her heart.
The next three days went by quickly. The children took to learning some basic words and phrases. Zijuan learned their names and bits of phrases in their language as well. She made a point to have class for two hours each day, as they would need to continue to learn to communicate with one another. Her father helped supply the wagon and food with some extra clothes for the children.
Finally, she was ready to say goodbye. The children were crammed everywhere—inside the wagon, some on top, some in the front with her, and still others walked alongside.
The journey was slow and arduous. Zijuan took care to avoid busy cities, sticking to country roads and small towns. The children never complained. Every two hours, they would stop for a light stretch and a bathroom break. Three times a day, they would stop for food breaks, which mostly consisted of rice and some cabbage or leeks. Other than that, they never stopped moving.
On the morning of the fourth day, Zijuan stood atop a mountain overlooking the sprawling city of Shanghai. Wooden buildings crammed together like worms in a can. Freighters and trawlers endlessly entered and exited the Shanghai harbor. The busy city streets were infested with peasants, wagons, and every type of merchant.
She instructed the children to stay in the camp until she returned, which would probably not be until the next day. The city was still three miles away, so she left the camp at a quick pace. She would need as much time as possible to search out a ship and a trustworthy captain.
Within two hours, she had made it to the city borders. Although she had ventured to some cities, nothing compared to the sights and sounds of Shanghai. Every manner of beast, fish, and plant was openly sold in the many outdoor markets. A six-foot shark was being auctioned off at the fish market. A live cobra was having its blood extracted. Chirping monkeys swung from cages. The stench of human waste almost caused her to gag several times—Shanghai was in dire need of a sewer system.
After getting lost and finding her bearings several times, she finally arrived at the marina, staring at miles of docked ships. Workers hauled bags of spices from the West Indies, barrels of molasses from Jamaica, bales of cotton from India, and many hauls of different fish. The marina was a bustling mess of workers carrying hundred-pound bags on their backs while bosses yelled and even whipped them. Vessel owners inspected their cargo and conferred with captains. Merchants eagerly purchased from the ship’s containers and their own workers carted the wares to their stores or factories.
Zijuan wandered for hours among the ships, trying to find the right one. She had learned the children had come from a land called Morocco and was listening for a dialect similar to the one spoken by the children.
But no opportunities presented themselves. Most of the ships’ captains were white and spoke very odd languages.
Frustrated and hungry, she spotted a seaside bar and made her way inside.
The bar was named “The Grey Gull,” noted by a small wooden sign hung just over its rotting red door. There was one tiny window of green stained glass in the center of the wall.
The inside was dark and lit by candlelight. The floorboards, wooden and wet, harbored the dank smell of rum, beer, tobacco spit, and salt.
Everyone inside appeared to be sailors, either in good spirits if they’d just returned from sea, or in a sour state if they were about to embark. A group of Dutch sailors stood in the far corner, six deep, hugging one another and singing a Dutch sailing song. An English sailor snored in his cup of soup, dead drunk. Other nationalities drank and talked in the many corners of the Gull.
Zijuan made her way to the bar counter and asked for a green tea and a bowl of noodles. Finding a seat, she smelled the warm broth and it brought a smile to her face. The fish oil, lemongrass, coriander, chili peppers, honey, and soy mixed together to form a delightful aroma. She slowly sipped the broth and allowed the warmth to settle in her stomach.
“Not bad soup, eh?” a voice behind her said.
“Not bad,” she agreed.
“Haven’t seen you in these parts before. What ship did you come in on?” the voice asked.
“I didn’t come in on a ship,” she slowly answered, suspicious of the sudden attention.
“Hmmm, what are you doing here, then?”
“Eating.”
“Now listen here, missy…,” the voice answered angrily, grabbing her by her arm.
Before the voice could make another movement, Zijuan had produced a dagger from beneath her coat and held it to the man’s neck. She looked into his black eyes, felt his saggy skin on her blade, and smelled the considerable amount of rum on his breath.
“Old man, you had best behave yourself or I’ll slit your throat like a beached trout,” she whispered in his ear.
The man, obviously drunk, suddenly sobered and let out a slight whimper. Zijuan let her blade up from his throat and the man slinked away as she casually returned to her soup.
She finished the meal without further incident, paid her bill, and was making her way to the door when she heard it—a dialect like the children’s. It was coming from the corner. She stepped up and saw the owner of the voice—a tall man wearing a towel around his head, a gold earring in one ear, and a pitch-black goatee on his chin. She ventured up to his table.
“Do you have a ship?” she asked.
The man, sitting with a group of men, looked startled to see her.
“Do you have a ship?” she asked again.
“Yes, I have a ship. Why do you want to know?” he replied in perfect Chinese.
“Where are you from?” Zijuan asked.
“Excuse me?”
“What country?”
“I am from Algeria. Have you heard of it?”
“No.”
“So, why do you need a ship?”
She studied him. He had green eyes, with light wrinkles of crow’s feet—probably from being in the salt and sun. His face was tanned and dark and his teeth white. He looked like a sea captain.
“I have some cargo that needs transporting,” she replied.
“To where?”
“I don’t exactly know.”
“What is the cargo?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Well, it will be difficult to give you a price if I don’t know the cargo or where it’s going.”
“I need a miracle, it as simple as that. Are you a good man?” she asked.
He studied her for a moment. He wasn’t accustomed to such boldness from a woman. He had observed with admiration how she handled herself with the drunk. He immediately liked her.
“That depends upon who you ask if I’m a good man.”
“Can you spare a few hours?”
“For what?”
“I need to show you something, but only you.”
He paused suspiciously.
“There are Shanghai artists in these parts. You’re not going to drag me to an alley and knock me out are you?”
“No, nothing like that. But I need to show you to explain.”
Zijuan needed to introduce this captain to the children. If he spoke their dialect then he could help her find out where they lived. More importantly, she needed time to judge his character and to decide if she could trust him.
“Now!”
“I’ve just sat down after a month at sea. Can’t I have a beer or two? Why don’t you join us?”
“I don’t have time for that. I need to show you this, and then you can drink all you want.”
The captain let out a heavy sigh, nodded, grabbed his coat, and bid adieu to his comrades.
“This better be good,” he said.
“Don’t worry about that.”
“Where are we going?’
“About three miles out of town.”
“And you plan to walk?”
“Of course.”
“Oh no, we’re taking a rickshaw.”
“I don’t have any money,” she replied but without shame. She didn’t have time for pleasantries.
“It will be my pleasure.”
“Okay, then.”
They flagged a horse-drawn rickshaw and began the trek out of the city.
“What is your name?”
“I am Zijuan. What is yours?”
“I am Captain Basil.”
“Where did you learn Chinese?”
“My parents lived in China when I was a boy. My father was a captain, as well as his father and his father before that. You see, the sea is in my blood.”
“And what is it you transport?”
“Anything that brings a price. From the Chinese, we purchase tea and spices and ship them to the English. From India, we purchase salt and cotton, which we sell to the Spanish.”
“Do you have a family?”
“Yes, a beautiful wife and two lovely sons.”
“When I am in port, perhaps every two or three months. Not as often as I like.”
“So why don’t you quit to be closer to home?”
“As I said, the sea is in my blood. If I am not sailing, I’m afraid I’ll wither away and die.”
Zijuan liked the fact the captain was married and had children. That was the mark of a stable man. She also liked the fact that he was in the same craft as his father and grandfather. That meant he’d probably been instructed well. His manner was calm and confident, and she held a good feeling about him.
“So now are you going to tell me about this cargo?”
“A week ago, I rescued about thirty children from a slave trader. They speak the same dialect as you. I need to return them to their home.”
The man’s face expressed complete shock.
“That wasn’t the answer you were expecting?”
“Honestly, no. I thought perhaps you wanted to ship opium.”
“And would you have agreed?”
“No. If I am boarded by authorities, I could lose my ship. And, I don’t approve of drugs.”
They sat in silence awhile. Finally, Captain Basil spoke.
“These children, they may not have homes or families. Have you thought about raising them here?”
“They belong with their families or, at a minimum, with their people. Besides, what if they do have families? If your children were kidnapped, would you not want to see them returned to you unharmed?”
“I see your point.”
The rickshaw wound around a bend and the horse struggled a bit with the incline.
“There. It is just over that hill to the right,” Zijuan instructed the driver.
The rickshaw made its way up the hill and turned right into a grassy field. About a hundred yards down, there was a grouping of trees with a small creek. As they edged toward the trees, Zijuan and Captain Basil could see the outlines of small children running for cover.
Finally, they reached the trees. Several children came running when they saw it was Zijuan. Soon, all the children had surrounded the rickshaw. Captain Basil looked in amazement at the innocent eyes staring up at him.
“There are so many,” he stammered.
“I know.”
Captain Basil stepped off the rickshaw and studied the children’s faces. They were undoubtedly Arab but he couldn’t tell exactly which country. Seeing the eldest one, he began an inquisition.
“Where are you from?” he asked her gently, in Arabic.
“Morocco.”
“How did you come to be in this country?”
“We were kidnapped and sold.”
“Are you orphans?”
“A few are but many of us have families.”
“How long have you been gone?”
“I do not know. Perhaps a month, perhaps more.”
The girl was tall and lanky, and her accent revealed she came from an upper-class upbringing. It held a touch of nobility.
“What does your father do?” Captain Basil asked.
“He is a merchant.”
“And where did you go to school?”
“The Misri School.”
“It was a private school?”
“Yes.”
“And you probably speak English.”
“Yes.”
This girl was definitely from an upper-class family and no orphan.
Captain Basil went to Zijuan.
“They are from Morocco. A few are orphans but most have families. This one here is from a well-to-do family. I can tell by her accent and education. Just as you suspected, they were captured and sold as slaves.”
“So will you help me?” Zijuan asked.
Captain Basil assessed the situation.
“How much money do you have?”
“About a thousand yen.”
“Not nearly enough. We are sailing for Algeria, but it would be another two weeks, round trip, to drop them off in Morocco. I have the cost of my crew, food…”
“What if their families would help?” Zijuan asked.
“I was thinking the same thing. It’s a risk on my part.”
“I’ll say it again. What if these were your children?”
He eyed her—the guilt of a woman! He took a few breaths but already knew his answer.
“You will need to watch them. I can put them in a hold. It will be cramped. I don’t want them disturbing the crew.”
“You won’t even know they are on the ship.”
“I highly doubt that. Be at the docks in two days at daybreak. The name of my ship is The Constantine Ghost. It is at Dock 21.”
“Please. I need to trust you. If you say you will be there, you must be there. All these children and their families are counting on you.”
“Madame, I am a man of faith. I believe that you and these children were delivered to me by Allah, and it is my sworn duty to see them delivered safely to their families. We will worry about the money at another time.”
“Thank you,” Zijuan said and, in spite of her nature, bowed deeply in respect.
Captain Basil returned the bow.
“I only have a day in port to celebrate. I will see you in two days.”
Captain Basil loaded himself back onto the rickshaw and disappeared over the hill. Zijuan was sad to see him depart. It felt safe to have someone, anyone, to talk with and share just a bit of her burden.
Two days later, in the early morning darkness, Zijuan and the children made their way through town. She retraced her steps to the marina and headed straight to Dock 21. Sure enough, The Constantine Ghost sat at the dock like a dog awaiting its master. It was a handsome boat, with golden mahogany for paint and a wooden gull at the front of the bow.
An hour later, Captain Basil emerged from his quarters with sleep in his eyes, stretching as the sun beckoned over the horizon. He looked up, yawned, turned and immediately found thirty sets of eyes on him. He was so startled he started laughing.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Good morning to you,” Zijuan replied.
“Well, no dawdling; let me set you a ladder and welcome you aboard.”
Captain Basil placed a wooden ladder between the ship and the dock. Slowly, each child made their way onboard, followed at last by Zijuan.
“Come, your quarters are waiting. Have the children eaten?”
“Not much, just some cold rice and seaweed.”
“Well, we’ll get them fed. I have purveyed separate quarters for you. The children will be allowed on deck from the hours of seven to nine in the morning, two to three in the afternoon, and seven to nine at night. These orders are to be followed. They will be allotted two meals a day. It’s not much but it’s all I can spare.”
“You are very generous. What about chores?” Zijuan continued.
“What about them?”
“Please. Put the older ones and myself to work. We can cook, clean, launder, anything to make the voyage more pleasant.”
Captain Basil hadn’t considered this.
“I’ll talk with my first mate. Perhaps we can have a work detail. That is a very generous offer.”
“It is you who is making the generous offer,” Zijuan corrected him.
Soon the children had eaten a breakfast of eggs, rice, and biscuits. Captain Basil had never seen little mouths move so fast. The cook, an old salt named Rigby Jones, came out to greet his new customers, and even he was touched by their appetite.
The rest of the crew wasn’t yet onboard. Captain Basil showed the children to their quarters in the stern, the rear of the boat normally used for prisoners of war captured at sea. Pillows and rugs had been carefully laid and Captain Basil had even purchased some toys and trinkets to entertain the children. The quarters were tight, but soon the children were fast asleep, practically on top of one another.
Zijuan was shown to her quarters. It was a small room with a bed, a bowl for washing, and a small desk. A small porthole allowed the sunlight to creep in and could be opened to view the ocean, splashing ten feet below.
“You are too kind,” said Zijuan, sincerely grateful.
“It is nothing. A woman should have her privacy. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a ship to prepare for sail.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Zijuan said as he walked away.
She lay down on her bed, and a tremendous sense of relief came over her. For the first time in days, she allowed herself to relax and drift into a deep sleep as The Constantine Ghost set sail and headed for open water.