The night promised to be an ideal tropical evening. A full moon shimmered above the palms, whose great branches swayed gently in the light breeze overhead. The sands shone fluorescent, and waist-high breakers rolled lazily against the beach in never-ending succession. All the crew, save Torger and Lackey who were minding the ship, had come ashore. They were sitting around a huge fire on the beach roasting a wild boar Digger had shot that afternoon. It was the first fresh meat they had smelled in weeks, and the mere thought of what it would taste like put everyone in a festive mood. Even Pike passed around a cask of grog he had secreted aboard the ship. The night air filled with rowdy laughter, accompanied by the telling and retelling of everyone’s favorite seagoing adventures, most exaggerated beyond recognition from the original facts.
Joining merrily in the revelry, Robbie was happy for an opportunity to blow off a little steam and release his mind from the troubles that had been plaguing him. Without the aid of Overlie’s harmonica, the singing was notably bad, worsened further by the effects of Pike’s alcohol. But the emotional good was still squeezed out of it, notwithstanding the Vicar’s derisive snorts whenever a love song was begun.
This was the kind of place that made forgetting easy. It was clean, unaffected, pure. It was the kind of paradise more than a few sailors had jumped ship for. Though the lure was not quite that strong on Robbie, he could not keep out a few idyllic fantasies about staying here forever. Why not find himself a wife among the lovely brown-skinned women and make a life and future here? He could stroll every day upon the beach, plant rice and pick coconuts. Here his fantasies usually ended, however, because Robbie could not think of a more boring existence than sitting waiting for crops to grow. He was made for adventure, for new horizons!
His laughter grew louder. One too many draws off the cask of grog aided him in the delusion that he was indeed having a fine time and that this was the essence of the adventuresome life of the fun-loving sailor.
The party was suddenly and unceremoniously interrupted by a hard, high-pitched laugh.
“Ah, ha! So here are our visitors from pretty English vessel!”
Even in the shadows the speaker’s coarse, evil voice could readily be discerned, made all the more sinister by his heavy accent. As he walked slowly into the light of the fire, Robbie saw that despite the Chinese heritage of his large and burly frame, he was dressed in typical western seaman’s attire—blue canvas trousers, loose linen shirt. Strapped to his ample midriff was a thick black belt, from which hung an ornate blunderbuss pistol and a shiny steel cutlass. The handful of men at his back were similarly clad, although some were adorned with silk oriental shirts instead of the linen. All were heavily armed, though mostly with old-style weaponry.
Immediately Robbie sobered. Traders occasionally carried weapons for protection, as had their own landing party the other day. But it was obvious these men were not traders, and Robbie instantly grew wary. Robbie held his peace however, waiting to see their intent.
Pike pulled himself up with his crutch and leveled an uncompromising stare at the speaker.
“We are that,” he said with cool defiance. “An’ just wot might ye be yerselves?”
The question was unnecessary, for Robbie had reported his discovery of the Chinese junk lying at anchor on the other side of the island. But the verbal sparring might buy them a little time, and Pike did not ask it in a manner that required such a straight-forward answer.
“Seamen. We be seamen—like yourselves. I am Chou Gung-wa, commander of Kiaochow,” replied the hefty man, trying to pass as an innocent Chinese sailor. “Our vessel damage in storm. We seek refuge. Like yourselves, eh?”
“That’s our business.”
“Ah, yes . . . of course.” Then Chou held out a porcelain flask. “We come sociable. See . . . bring gifts. Good drink. English sailors partial brandy, eh?”
“Well, ye’re welcome to our camp,” acquiesced Pike begrudgingly, knowing there was nothing else he could do. “But I see no need for all that hardware.” He cocked his head toward the weapons.
“One never knows what wild things one will meet on untamed islands,” said Chou.
“But as you see, we are carrying none . . .”
Chou barked an order in Chinese to his men, and immediately, though not without some grumbling, they dropped their swords and gun belts in the sand.
“See,” said Chou, with a lopsided grin, “we men of peace!” But his cold, cruel eyes, hardly visible in the flickering firelight, told a different story.
Robbie edged to the fringes of the group, found a piece of driftwood in the shadows, and sat down against it. Skeptically he observed the proceedings, especially the increasing rowdiness and drunkenness of the Tiger’s crew. Chou’s men were hardly the sociable type. Something did not ring true about this so-called peaceful visit.
Robbie was as willing to make new friends as the next man. But he had sensed trouble from the moment he had spotted the junk from the mountain top. He had warned Pike, but the skipper had laughed it off.
“Let the blag’ards come!” he had shouted. “If they mean trouble—then, by Jove, we’ll give it to them!”
But it was a toothless boast, for there was no telling how many besides the present handful were on the Kiaochow, and the Tiger was down to fourteen besides the skipper. Of that, one was a child and two were old men. Even with their archaic weaponry, Robbie doubted the Tiger’s crew could put up much of a fight against the Orientals, even the few gathered around the fire.
A casual observer, however, might have questioned Robbie’s misgivings in light of the apparent free flow of camaraderie between the two groups, though only two or three of Chou’s group could speak recognizable English. And the look on Johnnie’s face would not have indicated that a dangerous situation was brewing. It would have appeared merely that two crews of shipwrecked sailors were having a good time together.
Gradually two voices rose above the rest. The boatswain had taken a noisy interest in an antique pistol belonging to one of the Chinese sailors. It was of a Persian make about 18th century, with a stock inlaid with bone, turquoise and brass. The butt was of pure ivory. No doubt booty from some overpowered ship, thought Robbie, though he prayed he was wrong.
“Not a bad piece,” said Digger, sighting down its barrel.
“Very good gun,” said the Oriental, nervously eyeing his gun in the hands of this white barbarian.
“Well, it ain’t that good! Pretty, I’ll grant ye, but probably too old to be accurate.” Digger was drunk, and perhaps thought things had become a bit too congenial. A good fight, in his distorted inebriated mind, could only represent an improvement. “I bet ye couldn’t hit a coconut at ten feet in broad daylight with this pea shooter!”
“Hit what aim at,” returned the Chinese, roughly reaching out and retrieving his gun, then leveling it dangerously at Digger himself.
“Why you dirty—”
But Digger did not bother to finish his verbal insult, and instead leaped at the sailor, a tiny man half his size.
His adversary nimbly jumped to his feet and stepped aside, sending Digger sprawling into the sand. Jenkins and Johnnie tried to calm him, but, spitting and sputtering, he knocked them aside.
“Lemme at him, the dirty Chi—”
But Pike broke in. “Get out of here, Digger! Go cool your head in the sea! We don’t want trouble.”
Digger fell back a step, muttering to himself, “Just one o’ those English rifles in the hold an’ I’d—”
He never had the chance to finish his statement. Pike’s crutch shot up, landing a punishing blow to his jaw. Digger fell to the ground unconscious.
“Fool!” breathed Pike, before turning again to the merrymakers. “We gots work to do tomorrow!” he shouted. “Time to break up this tea party!”
But the damage had been done. And Pike knew it.