The shouts aboard the Tiger quickly fell the moment the ominous outline of the Kiaochow could be clearly distinguished. Most of the men merely stood gaping, as if they had been cheated by their false hope.
But Robbie sprang into action.
“Digger!” he shouted, “break out the weapons! The rest of you, let’s trim what’s left of these sails!”
Unquestioningly the men obeyed. But Pike, who had been moving about in a daze, laid a hand on Robbie’s arm. The act was not resistant, nor were his words spoken out of authority. He asked a simple question, as one might to his commander: “What are you doing?”
“We’ll either fight them or outrun them!” returned Robbie.
“You know we can do neither.”
“We have to try! We can’t just sit here.”
“We can give up, and hope we are spared.”
Robbie appraised Pike for a long moment. Was he truly suggesting giving up, or was there some unseen ulterior motive in his statement? This hardly seemed the same Pike who was such a short time ago willing to brave all manner of hazards to save his valuable cargo. Was it possible that he knew his cargo, and perhaps himself as well, would be saved, and in actuality he cared not a thing for ship and crew?
Robbie could not even force himself to believe his own thoughts.
Now was not a time, however, to deliberate with himself. There was only time to act on gut instinct. And his instinct told him that there was little hope a man like Chou would spare them. Then came Pike’s quiet words, as if he knew he no longer carried the right to determine the fate of his ship. “Do what you can,” he said, then spoke no more.
Even before the Kiaochow was within the Tiger’s range it began to fire, though these blasts fell far short. But these initial forays with cannon fire were merely intended to intimidate, for Chou was after the cargo and would not dare chance damaging it. As soon as they were close enough, the cannons were replaced by guns, and a volley of handfire between the two ships ensued. Though some of the Chinese weapons were archaic, others were not, and within ten minutes three more of the Tiger’s crew were dead and Chou’s hoard had been diminished by only a handful.
Chou waved a flag of truce and the fire on both ships ceased. It was not truce he wanted, but surrender.
“Give up at once,” he yelled across the water, “and you may yet find mercy!”
Even as he spoke of mercy, Chou stretched his arm to his left indicating his cannons, manned and ready to fire.
Robbie turned back to gaze upon his own meager crew. There were but nine of them left, as well as Pike, who had retired to the chart house to await his ship’s final fate. Robbie was silent a moment, then said, “What’ll it be, men? You have the right to choose how you will die.”
“I say fight it out if we have half a chance!” cried Overlie.
“We might not have even that much,” said Robbie solemnly.
“Give ’em the bloody cargo!” said Digger.
“Yeah, what is it to us?” added another.
“We may do so and still find ourselves on the end of their swords,” said Robbie.
“But if we don’t give it to them, they’ll kill us all first, then take it anyway!”
“Look at ’em! There must be fifty men still on that ship!”
A general clamor of agreement arose.
“What do we have to lose? The cargo’s as good as lost. We can’t hope to win in a fight.”
“That’s right! The only chance is to let them have it!”
“It may be no chance at all,” said Robbie.
“But it’s the only one we have!”
At last Robbie realized that the men were no longer prepared to lose their lives for a skipper for whom they had lost their respect. Especially when giving up seemed to offer their only hope—however slim—of survival. Facing certain death, it became easier to put their fate into the hands even of a pirate.
Slowly Robbie raised his weapon into the air, took one last look toward his men as if to ask, “Are you sure this is your decision?” Then with great effort of will, he flung the gun into the water. His men immediately followed the lead.
Within moments, notwithstanding the substantial breezes and that the sea was by no means calm, the Kiaochow had moved alongside the Tiger. The junk’s crew had obviously had a great deal of experience of this very kind.
Chou was the first to step aboard, wearing an ugly, triumphant grin. One look at Robbie, and Chou thrust an evil finger toward the first mate.
“Hold him!” he ordered to several of his men. “He looks as if he is not fully convinced of the wisdom of his decision.”
Three bare-chested Chinese stepped forward and held Robbie fast. He now had to look on, helpless, as the remaining hoards of pirates swarmed aboard his ship. A half dozen of the marauders held guns to the crew, while another thirty or forty went below to begin relieving the Sea Tiger of her cargo. The task was no small one, and it was noon before the contraband of rifles and other items was stowed aboard the junk.
When the task was completed, Chou sent three of his men to ferret Pike out of his hiding place. They found him half drunk, and dragged him before their leader.
“So, where do great sea captain’s warnings leave him now?” laughed Chou.
“You dirty, yellow-eyed—”
But Chou’s fist rammed Pike viciously in the stomach, cutting off further insults as the captain crumbled to the deck.
“Go ahead, put up good show, Mister Captain Pike,” jeered Chou. “But do not worry. You need barter but once with me to save skin. Your words on island suffice.”
“What the—!” exclaimed Digger. “You tried to make a deal with these savages!” he cried at Pike. “Why you double crossing, no good—”
Digger burst free from his captors and threw himself at his traitorous skipper. He reached Pike and had his hands around the older man’s scrawny throat when a shot rang through the air.
The huge bo’sun dropped heavily to the deck.
Robbie fought to break free, but he could not budge. He could not help, anyway. Digger was already dead.
Then he became conscious of Chou’s wicked laughter ringing through the air as the echo from the shot died away. More even than pillage and murder, he seemed to take great delight in turning men one against the other, watching mate betray mate in a final hopeless effort each to save his own skin.
“It might prove better sport,” he said, still laughing, “to leave you to mercies of own men, eh, Pike? But no, I would not miss watching you squirm before Wang K’ung-wu.”
He motioned to his men. “Take him aboard Kiaochow!”
Staring straight ahead, Pike hobbled away between his captors. He looked neither to the right nor left, refusing to catch the eye of any of his crew, all of whom stared after him silently. Robbie’s gaze followed him all the way, still hoping that in the end Pike would turn and say something to reassure them that he had not sold them out. But it looked as though he would never know.
The moment Pike was aboard, Chou led the rest of his pirates off the Tiger, though not before they had crippled its two remaining lifeboats. Any relief the men may have felt at seeing the devilish junk pulling away from its hull was short-lived. For within moments Chou gave the order and the cannons of the Kiaochow began firing. The first ball fell short, but the next two hit the Tiger broadside, and a third and fourth blasted apart a large portion of the interior deck. A fire was soon raging amidships from the explosive charges.
The wind swiftly carried the junk away. The Tiger was now shipping water at an incredible rate from more than a half-dozen gashes and rents in its once-proud hull. Black smoke poured into the sky as the bright orange flames from the burning sails licked the masts that had once mightily held them against the world’s winds. Slowly it began to reel toward port, as the stern sank deeper and deeper into the rising sea.
The men who remained of the crew began leaping over the side of the ship so as not to be sucked into the vacuum-like pull of the sinking vessel. Robbie waited a moment before jumping, thinking, as for an instant he surveyed the tragic end of a proud craft, that it had probably been some mercy of Providence that young Sammy had been taken as he was. He quickly counted six heads bobbing up and down in the water.
There should be another, he thought. But the seas were turbulent enough that anything could have happened to the other man. Then he spotted the Vicar, clinging to the side of the slanting starboard deck farther toward what had once been the bow of the ship. Robbie ran up the deck toward him.
“Jump, man!” he shouted.
Still the Vicar hung tightly to the rail.
“Jump, or we’ll go down with her!”
“I . . . I can’t swim,” said the Vicar, almost pitifully.
“That hardly matters now, Vicar!” said Robbie. He grabbed at Drew’s hands, struggling to unwrap them from their panicked grip, then half shoved, half pulled the Vicar, and the two of them leaped over the side and into the water.
When they sputtered to the surface, with his left hand clutched around the Vicar’s shoulder, Robbie swam furiously to escape entanglement in the ship’s rigging and to distance himself as much as possible from the sinking ship.
When he could swim no more, he stopped, just in time to watch the sea swallow the last of his noble Sea Tiger. The tears that rose in his eyes would never be seen by another man, for the ocean washed over them freely. But Robbie was too exhausted to care—they were going to die; what else mattered?
A great wave washed over them, then another. But Robbie could not give up. Each time he struggled to the surface he pulled the nearly unconscious Vicar with him.
“Isn’t the third time under supposed to be the last?” gasped the Vicar. “Let me go and let me die! They say drowning is the most peaceful way of all.”
Another wave crashed over them and Robbie kicked and fought once more to the surface.
“I’ll not let you go, Vicar!” Robbie tried to shout.
Another wave interrupted him.
“If we go . . . we both go together!”
A moment later and they were under the surface again. Each time they seemed to remain under longer. This time Robbie’s grip on the Vicar began to slip. His lungs ached for air. His legs were numb from the cold and the ceaseless kicking and the added weight of the Vicar’s body.
What would it be like to drown? Robbie wondered. With the thought came a momentary relaxation of his strength. He could not fight much longer. And what was the use? They could never make land—the ship was gone, the Vicar couldn’t swim. Why not just give in to the sea? Why not just let it wash peacefully over them. Relax, he thought sleepily. Just let the water sweep over . . . rest . . . just rest. It would all be over soon . . .
Suddenly his head broke through the surface and he again felt air on his face. He gasped violently for oxygen, then felt himself smack hard against some object in the water with them. Vicar! Where was the Vicar! Oh no! The Vicar was gone! He’d let go of him! . . . What was that floating in the water?
Robbie’s mind was not thinking rationally. He could not focus on what was happening. He could not distinguish between the Vicar and what he had bumped into and the delicious air his lungs were frantically trying to fill themselves with. Instinctively his one hand grabbed the floating object while his other beat about around him for Drew.
“Drew!” he gasped. “Vicar . . . Vicar . . . where are you?”
Robbie’s foot hit against something soft.
“Vicar!” cried Robbie.
He reached down with his free hand. His fingers closed around a shred of clothing. He pulled with all the might left in his weakened arm. In a moment the Vicar’s head broke through the surface.
“Vicar!” cried Robbie, “hang on . . . take hold of this . . . I’ve found something from the ship . . . grab hold . . .”
He put Drew’s arms around the floating timber from the Sea Tiger. Gradually Drew began sputtering for air, and as he did so, his limp arms felt the wood and tried to grab it.
“Hang on to it, Drew . . . hang on!”
An hour later, Robbie and the Vicar were still alive, still clutching the spar—for it was the mizzen topgallant yard from the Sea Tiger—and still fighting off the bitter cold from the sea. Drew lay with his arms around it like one already dead, and still Robbie was paddling with what strength remained to keep them both afloat.
Hours seemed to pass. Still the sea did not overwhelm them. Occasionally Robbie wondered about the rest of the crew, whether they were out there clinging for their lives to other pieces of the ship. But he could see nothing, and had scarcely the strength to lift his head even if he could have seen beyond the next wave. The whole world consisted of him and the Vicar and a broken yardarm and the pounding sea.
He tried to think of their bearings. The Tiger had covered a lot of ground during the storm. Perhaps they were not that far from shore. They had been running parallel to the coast because of the rudder. What about the tides and currents? He had no idea of their direction. But it was all an empty hope! They could not hope to swim one mile in these seas!
Were they about to die? What would come then? Would he see heaven? But of course that was impossible! He would be one of the damned. What about the Vicar? Would this be their final parting—the Vicar to the place above, and he to the place below?
Desperate for the sound of a human voice, he tried to speak.
“Elliot,” he gasped, “Elliot . . . are you afraid?”
The Vicar merely made a soft gurgling sound, which was as close as his dispirited mind could come to a laugh.
“I never thought I’d be afraid to die,” Robbie continued, his words labored. “Being afraid frightens me almost . . . almost as much as dying.”
“A new sensation . . . fear . . . something Robbie Taggart hasn’t known, eh?”
“I’ve rarely been afraid—until now.”
“Don’t worry, Robbie—you’ll get used to it.”
“But what’s going to happen to us? I don’t want to go to hell. I feel I should repent . . . or something, but—”
Another wave caught him full in the face, and his open mouth took so much water that he could not speak for some time.
“Repent because you’re dying?” said the Vicar, his passion for discussion undaunted even in the face of death. “That’s the worst possible reason for repentance.”
“What are the right reasons?”
“I used to know some . . . can’t think at the moment. Now shut up . . . so I can die in peace.”
It was just as well. Robbie could talk no more. He couldn’t think straight. Would God have mercy on him even though he hadn’t repented? He didn’t even know what repentance meant.
It was just so cold . . . he could kick his legs no longer . . . did not even realize it when the seas gradually began to calm. Repentance . . . the Sea Tiger . . . Jamie . . . the face of Benjamin Pike—they all loomed in his mind: words, faces, feelings, memories . . . jumbled into confusion.
On he floated in waking unconsciousness, no longer even aware of the Vicar, wondering occasionally if he’d drifted off and into the sea and into some peaceful final sleep.
Only vaguely did Robbie feel the strong hands yanking and pulling at his body. Were they taking him out of the sea to warm him by the fires of hell? Was he dead? There seemed to be a dry surface underneath him, but it continued to rock and undulate like the sea. Was hell nothing more than an continuous experience of the moments of your death?
Then came the sound of voices floating in the air above him—the voices of angels or demons or some other beings he could not see. They reminded him of the voices of his Highland home—warm and earthy and reassuring. He could understand nothing of what they said. It sounded in his memory like the strange and rhythmic Gaelic tongue spoken by the natives in the hills of his homeland.
In his exhausted and delirious state, Robbie could not tell that they spoke not the Gaelic of the Scottish Highlands, but indeed a rather similarly melodious dialect of Chinese.