Fatal Enquiry (9 page)

“Lad,” he said. “Leave James and me to talk. There are berths down below. Get some sleep. You’ll need it.”

I wanted to hear what plan the Guv had concocted, but at the same time, I was cold and exhausted. I nodded and said good night, then went through the door of the makeshift structure and down a narrow set of steps. The boy met me there and led me through an ill-lit corridor to the stern of the ship. There, divesting myself of every stitch of clothing I had, I climbed into the unfamiliar bed, and was asleep almost instantly.

Hours later, I woke to the sound of the river slapping against the barnacle-laden timbers near my head. The cabin was smoky with the acrid scent of whale oil, and I felt nauseous from the fumes. Pushing myself out of the berth, I looked about for my clothes, but they were gone. Wrapping the blanket around me like a toga, I staggered to the door and threw it open. When I was certain I wasn’t going to be ill, I shuffled down the corridor. Ahead of me I heard a tinkling sound, almost like sleigh bells. In the main cabin, I was treated to a sight which almost made me forget my nausea entirely.

Cyrus Barker was stripped to the waist and there were stout steel rings suspended from his forearms, seven or eight on each one. They were an inch thick and a little wider than the circumference of his arms. He was performing one of his Chinese forms, like a ballet, but an earthbound one, under the accumulated weight of the rings. So deep was the strain, in fact, that the Guv’s body dripped with sweat and the short hair spiked upon his head. Barker had taught me several rudimentary forms but I had not seen one like this before. I waited until he was done before daring to speak.

“Where is Briggs?”

“I let him go,” he said, as he let the rings slide down his arm onto the floor with a musical clatter.

“You trust him to keep our whereabouts secret?”

“I trust him to do that which is in his own self-interest. I paid him off with a few damp bills from your trouser pockets. It should buy us some time, at least.”

“I hope you didn’t give him too many. Goodness knows how long we must live off them.”

“It’s only money, lad, and easily gotten,” he said, putting on a shirt.

“The words of a rich man,” I countered. “I’ve never found it so.”

“Yesterday morning you awoke in a comfortably appointed bed in an elegant house, where you dressed in the latest fashion and were fed by London’s finest chef. I would say you’re not doing too poorly for yourself.”

I couldn’t argue with that, but I put out my hand and reclaimed the wallet, which I found had been emptied of twenty-five much-needed pounds. Scotsmen are like that, I’ve found, penny-wise and pound foolish, but it was his money, and he could do with it as he pleased.

“What are we going to do today, sir?” I asked. “Shall we lie low?”

“We have an appointment later, but first we are expecting breakfast.”

“More rice and egg, I suppose?”

“The egg is considered a treat,” the Guv explained. “Normally they just have rice. They are giving us the best they have.”

“There’s nothing like a bit of rice and egg to break one’s fast,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

“It’s nourishing, at least. That is why half a continent lives upon it.”

“To be sure,” I agreed. “Sir, could you tell me what has become of my clothes? I don’t relish going about in a bedsheet all day.”

“They’ve been washed and mended and are drying on deck. They should be ready after breakfast.”

The tea arrived first, piping hot, but practically tasteless. Were I to mention it, no doubt I’d be told the flavor was subtle and I needed to refine my tastes. I prefer coffee to tea, and that as black as the devil’s heart, but I drank the tea and ate the rice anyway. The boy offered me chopsticks, but I still hadn’t mastered them yet, unlike Barker, who could pick up a single grain between the tips.

“This barge belongs to the Lo family, our gardeners,” Barker explained. “The boy’s name is Yuk.”

Soon after, Yuk came down with my clothes. They were still slightly damp, but it was better than spending the day dressed like a Roman senator in a grammar-school version of
Julius Caesar
. After changing, I returned from our cabin.

“What’s on for today, then?” I asked.

“We’re going out, but it’s early yet.”

“In that case, do we have time to finish the story you began yesterday? Your brother didn’t return from battle. What happened next?”

Barker’s brows went flat across the top of his spectacles like a storm head gathering.

He was not inclined to open the vault of his remembrances so soon after his last revelation. Under normal circumstances, I’d back away and leave him to himself, but not this time. This time I had the justification of my convictions. This time I was right. He had told but half a story, and I wanted and deserved the rest of it. What had happened after his brother was so cruelly slain in the field? Did he confront Nightwine, and if so, what happened next? There are times when you can just tell that a momentous story is about to be told, and I refused to be cheated out of his because of a man’s natural or perhaps unnatural reticence.

He cleared his throat a couple of times, perhaps hoping I’d take pity on him, but I was stern as granite. He rubbed a hand over his fringe of hair and began to speak.

“I did not learn of my brother’s death right away. Townsend Ward had been killed at the siege of Chang-Sheng-Chun and the army was in disarray. Some joined the captain’s force and others began to pack up to go to America with the Devil Soldiers. Colonel Charles Gordon was coming; the Americans were out, for the most part, at least, and the British were coming in. The rebels took advantage of this time of command confusion and launched an attack upon an unnamed hillside town south of Shanghai, and during that offensive, my brother had been killed. No one but Nightwine knew of our connection, of course, and who would associate a Chinese spy among the rebels with General Ward’s Scottish-born interpreter? It was three days after the siege before I heard he was missing in action.

“The first thing I did was to buy some bottles of plum wine and get blind drunk. Then I strapped a dagger to my wrist and went to Nightwine’s tent, determined to avenge Caleb’s death. It was a stupid mistake, but I was young. He waited in bed until I had the knife raised to strike, then pulled his pistol and sang out. The tent was immediately full of guards, and I was thrown in the stockade. Being in charge at the time, Nightwine could keep me there indefinitely without trial, or as he put it, I could stay there and rot.

“In a Chinese jail, one has no expectation of ever coming out again. It is akin to being sealed in one’s own tomb.”

“Like the Count of Monte Cristo,” I blurted out.

Barker frowned.

“Sorry, sir. I meant like the French prisons during the revolution. One goes in and is pretty well forgotten.”

“I suppose. I have not studied the subject. In any case, I was held in a small, circular stone cell that had once been the town armory. It was hot as blazes in there, and there was but one window and that too high for me to reach. The walls were several feet thick. Any thought of escape was futile.

“I had a lot of time to think. I’d been a complete fool, walking into Sebastian’s trap. He had planned and acted, while I had merely reacted. I was never going to avenge my brother’s death without an organized and well-thought-out plan. To that end, I became friendly enough with the guards that they kept me apprised of what was going on in camp. A week later, General Gordon arrived and officially took over duties as head of the Ever Victorious Army. A smart man, I told myself, could turn this to his advantage.”

“How?” I asked.

“The room was a natural echo chamber. You see, the Chinese like to hear their prisoners’ groans and cries for mercy. So, I began to sing.”

“Sing what?”

“It didn’t matter what. Scraps of songs, whatever came to my head. You see, the cell window faced east, in the direction of the general’s tent. And as you have remarked in chapel, Thomas, my voice carries. A few days later, I had an epiphany. I recalled all the wonderful old hymns I had learned at my mother’s knee. You see, there was supposed to be a quiet Chinese spy in there. How would Nightwine explain when Gordon heard someone bellowing good Presbyterian hymns in broad Scots?

“I sang for hours. I sang for days. The guards rushed in and beat me into unconsciousness, and when I woke up again, I sang again. I understand I could be heard by the enemy a mile away.”

I could picture it all too easily, having sat beside him in church these past few years. Cyrus Barker makes up in volume and vigor what he lacks in pitch. At the Metropolitan Tabernacle in Newington Causeway, I have heard him drag entire rows out of tune. It was very believable that he could drive an army camp mad with his singing. Three verses into “Amazing Grace” sung off-key in basso profundo and I sometimes wanted to strangle him myself.

“Eventually I was taken before Charles Gordon and asked to explain myself, and for the first time in years, I did. I revealed that I was a Scotsman who had gone native working as a spy among the Chinese rebels for the Ever Victorious Army and Captain Nightwine in particular. That is, until my brother was killed under suspicious circumstances. After careful consideration, Gordon gave me one more week in the stockade, to be augmented if I should begin to sing again, and a transfer to another captain when I was free. Should I attempt to endanger the life of the captain, the general might conveniently forget my true lineage and have me beheaded. Gordon was fair but he could be hard when he had to be. I didn’t agree to it, but then I had been given no choice. The camp needed uninterrupted sleep.

“A week later I was released, handed an old and ill-conditioned Sharps rifle, and ordered to report to a Captain Macanaya, leader of a platoon of Manila-born mercenaries. Macanaya had the look of a pirate. He had me drilled in shooting and gave me a cramming course in Filipino. A few days later, I saw action again.

“The rebel forces in Chansu were much larger than the attacking Ever Victorious Army, but armed with only traditional weapons. I survived the first volley of arrows with a wound in my shoulder, and was unscathed by the ancient cannons that made more noise than damage. However, after the first few shots with the Sharps, I found myself without adequate time to reload my weapon. I used the butt end on thick Chinese skulls, and stabbed when I could with my bayonet, but they kept coming and coming. I felt that all of southern China was waiting to challenge me with halberds, spears, broadswords, and cudgels. My tunic was reduced to shreds and there were cuts all across my torso, mostly surface abrasions that would heal quickly and leave few scars.

“My arms ached from defending myself and I wondered how long I could go on, when a relief column swept in from their flank. I was about to cheer with my comrades when I saw the horse that belonged to Sebastian Nightwine. He came thundering past and there was a momentary look of recognition in his eyes, before I felt a sword slide past my cheek, nipping my ear. There was a sharp tug and the next I knew my hair fell about my eyes as my former commanding officer rode away with my queue in his hands.

“You must understand, Thomas, that when a Chinaman renounced the Ching government, he showed that renunciation by cutting off his queue, which the Manchus had imposed upon the Chinese Han people as a symbol of obedience. Loose hair was the symbol of the Tai-Ping, and with one swift stroke of his saber, he had labeled me a rebel. Soldiers who had run with me into battle now found a rebel in their midst.

“Nightwine came galloping back and raised his sword before him. There was murder in his eyes, and no one to protest that he was killing a soldier from his own side. My empty rifle seemed inadequate for defense under the circumstances. I debated for a moment whether to take up a spear and bring down the horse, or find a broadsword and merely take on the rider. At the last second, I found the broadsword, raising it to defend myself. There was a sharp clang as we met, and I was knocked ten feet by the locomotion of my attacker, but I was not injured. Better still, I had slowed my enemy’s progress. The captain rode into a phalanx of rebels, who were stabbing at him and trying to swarm up the side of the horse. He cut himself free, hacking and slashing in all directions. He and his men had had enough. He signaled and someone gave the bugle cry for retreat. The Ever Victorious Army began to back away or in many cases turned and ran. The few mounted cavalry, many on bleeding mounts, thundered past, thrusting their own Chinese soldiers out of the way.

“I lay on the ground for some time, my head bleeding, surrounded by the bodies of anonymous Chinamen. No one gave a cheer when the army retreated from the field. They turned silently and began walking in the other direction.

“I slept for a while, until I felt hands in my pockets. Someone was trying to rob me. I waved him away and pushed myself to my feet. There was no one who cared whether or not I returned to camp. As far as Nightwine was concerned, I was dead. I turned and headed south, realizing that if I was going to get another meal, it would be with the rebels.”

“So,” I said, knowing I could get in trouble for what I was about to say, “you were a deserter.”

“That’s a very fine point, I’ll admit,” Barker said, raising a finger. “My brother and I did join the Imperial Army, but I never actually took the queen’s shilling. Aye, I suppose I am a deserter. If the Ching government should decide they want me back, they can come here and take me.”

“Didn’t you tell me once that you were anti-Ching? ‘Destroy the Ching and restore the Ming’ and all that?”

“I see you have been paying attention. Yes, I eventually became critical of the Manchus, who had taken over China two hundred years earlier. I had hoped to help my adopted country win its freedom, though the rebel forces of the Taiping Rebellion were not the proper way to go about it.”

“So what became of Nightwine after that?”

“After Hong Xiuquan’s death in 1864, the rebellion fell apart. So, too, in a way, did the Ever Victorious Army. It was disbanded. Nightwine stayed in Shanghai for a while, but if there is one thing I know about him it is that he bores easily. He tried Macao, Hong Kong, Formosa, even Tokyo. He gambled or spent what money he had acquired in the war. He lived off rich widows and befriended and borrowed from other Englishmen, playing upon his name. Essentially, he was the same blackguard and rascal then that he is today.”