An older Chinese lady entered, dressed in a black silk robe all figured in gold-and-silver thread birds. She looked hard as flint and twice as old.
"You wan' guhl?" she began. "One guhl? Two guhl? Wan' see? Mak choose?"
"Have you any French customers, Mother Abbess?" Alan asked.
"No got French guhl. China guhl, got."
"No," he reiterated, speaking slowly as possible. "Have any men who are French come here in the last quarter-hour?"
"Ho, you wan' boy!" The madam comprehended. "Eeeh, got China boy. French boy, no got."
"Good Christ, I didn't go to Oxford!" Lewrie shot back. "You misunderstand me. Me want girl! No want boy. I look for friends here. Red-haired man. Man with beard? He come here?"
"Wan' guhl wi' beard?" she gasped. "Aw fo'n debbil… loony!"
"Want girl," Alan sighed, giving it up as a no-go. "You bring girl? Me make choose, right?"
"W'y you no say so? Wan' guhl? Yes, I b'ling," she huffed.
"I fear this is not going to improve my conversational skill," Alan commented to the little fourteen-year-old maid as she poured him a revivifying cup of brandy. She covered her mouth and giggled.
The girls arrived, four of them at once, and they didn't titter or giggle, thank the good Lord. Hair black as ink and elaborately coiffed, stuck through with long decorative pins-hair as lacquered and shiny as polished ebony wood. Faces painted bolder than any English whore's, with pale powdered faces and bright rouge and lip-gloss, their eyes and lashes outlined and brushed so that they loomed enormous, upper lids brushed with powder so they seemed like almonds enameled in blue and black. They talked among themselves, waving the huge sleeves of their intricately designed and figured silk robes.
"I've died and gone to heaven," Lewrie breathed at the sight of them. Choosing could be a hard process, for they were as lovely a quartet as any he'd ever suspected existed. And this was one of the brothels that specialized in Europeans-surely these would be thought of as mundane, with the absolute very best saved for the Chinese as too-precious pearls to be cast before foreign-devil swine!
They enveloped him, one seated to each side, one seated by the doorway to play a stringed instrument for his enjoyment, while the fourth began to sing, lolloping out some horribly off-key (to his Occidental ear) nonsense in a quavery, breathy voice. The one to his right plied chopsticks to feed him bites of dim sum, while the one to his left kept the tea and brandy flowing. And after each song, they would trade places, to introduce him to all their accomplishments.
"Speak English?" he asked each of them as they settled in at his side. "Speak pidgin? French? Bloody Latin?"
Sadly, three of them could not, but Wei Yen could. She was youngest of the four. It was hard for him to judge just how old she really was, but he guessed around sixteen or seventeen. Her skin was clearer, her features more delicate than the others', her mien not as artificially gay and "cherry-merry" as the other three, either.
There was more tea, more dim sum, some more appetizers fetched out, another bottle of mao tai. And then the madam was back, with her hand out for more silver, to pay for the treats supplied so far.
"You mak choose, now," the woman said, making it sound like a demand more than a request. "You wan' one guhl, two silla. Two guhl, fo' silla. Wan' keep aw fo', ten silla."
"One girl. Wei Yen," Alan replied, forking over two shillings for the girl and another six pence for the entertainment. The others bowed their way out and tripped down the main hall, toward the front of the establishment, their services already in demand.
Wei Yen beamed at him with a maidenly little smile, then took him by the hand and led him in the other direction, towards the back.
"Give bath," she promised.
A steaming wood tub sat sunk into the floor of each bath cubicle, some already full by the sounds coming from them. Lewrie took his time dawdling on his way to his, trying to peer into each one or linger long enough to listen to see if he could hear French being spoken. He shrugged, thinking Choundas either not there, or long gone by this time.
Wei Yen hung up his garments, wrinkling her pretty little nose each time and sing-songing something in Chinese, laughing softly as she did so. Lewrie preferred to think that they were jokes. When he was bare to the world, she indicated that he should get into the tub. He slid down into the extremely hot water, wincing on his way down, and found a bench to sit on by the side.
Wei Yen walked with mincing little steps to the other side of the tub and disrobed down to a very thin nankeen under-grown, which she slipped back off her shoulders as he watched, entranced.
She was a little bit of perfection. Middling shoulders, slim neck, creamy skin the color of pale ochre wheat. The silk robe she had worn had concealed the springy young bounty of her breasts that stood up firm and proud and straight-ahead fitf gether, shadowing a dark cleft he wanted to dive into. There was the slightest bit of stockiness around her rib cage, but the' waist was wasp-thin as a doll's, and her belly was so firm and flat, with a ridge of what he hoped would prove to be damned talented muscle down the center, leading to…
"Shaved?" he asked the room as she came toward him. She slid down into the tub with him gracefully, and came to his side. If she had seemed maidenly shy and tender before, it had been a theatric, for she became an unleashed tiger. She sat straddling him on the bench seat, reaching down to seize his member, which sprang awake as the Brigade of Guards in a twinkling. They slopped around in the tub, splashing water everywhere. She almost let him enter her, then slid away from him until she had him roaring in frustration.
But no. He had to leave the tub, sit on another damned stool while she soaped him from head to toes and scrubbed him clean with a sponge, sliding away from his soapy embraces and laughing all the while. Back into the tub for a cleansing soak, and then she was toweling him dry, letting him towel her dry. Then they gathered up their clothing and went up a back stairway to a private chamber.
He came to his senses just long enough to remember his condom, and then they were delightfully engaged, at long last, both making noises more usually associated with Iroquois massacres. "Father's wrong, ya know!" he said between gasps. "Bengali women have nothing on you, my dear!"
He lay utterly spent at long last, used up far further than he could ever remember, while the girl stroked him and kissed him, working him over with a small towel, and loosing her long dark hair that spread like a cloak to cover them both. She'd come unpinned somewhere in the second bout whilst teaching him an entirely novel manner, wrists and one ankle behind his neck as he sat on the edge of the bed clasping her small bottom like holding two small melons.
Her teasing fingers, and the moist warmth of the towel, strayed to his member, and it flickered with renewed interest.
"You wan' 'gin, qua?' she said with a gasp of wonder.
"Again? After that?" he chuckled. "Well, in a few, perhaps."
"No wan' 'gin, soon you go, qua," she said in a soothing whisper. " 'Nudda man, he wan', I got go. You stay, 'nudda one silla. You wan' chai, mao tail Wan' eat 'gin? Allee same at:Ua."
"I stay," Alan replied. "Mao tai, you and me both, right?" – She gave him a kiss and slid out of bed to slip on her un-dergown, open the door and call for one of the maid-servants.
While they drank and recuperated, he quizzed her as much as he was able. He learned that she had once been one of those little maids, purchased from a peasant family far to the north when the crops failed. Girl children could always be sold to support poor families. It was a prime reason to keep them, instead of putting them to death at birth: as a hedge against an uncertain future.
They were just about to partake of another spell of amour when Alan got down to his real questions, and the reason he had chosen her instead of one of the others who had no pidgin or English.
"Does a red-headed man ever come here?"
"Red? Wha' red?"
"Like this pillow tassel. Red," Alan prodded. "Dull, like ginger."
"Aw fo'n debbil red ha'," she tittered.
"Pale skin, like yours. He has a thin beard." Alan had to make a partial mask over his lower face with both hands. "Not long. Short, ginger-colored beard."
"Him debbil!" the girl shuddered.
"He comes here?" And she nodded her assent. "Did he come here tonight?"
"Him mak nudda guhl 'night," Wei Yen said, looking thankful. "Debbil, him! Mak wan' li'l guhl, no wan' olio guhl, my. Las' yea', him wan' my, no so olio. 'Night, him wan' new li'l guhl Yi."
"So he did come here tonight!" Lewrie exulted. "And is he still here? Right now?"
"Him heah. Him ba' man debbil! Hu't, my! Hu't Yi allee same!"
"What does he do?"
The girl could find no words, so she forced him onto his back and began to slap the air over his chest. "Dat!" She bit at his nipples. "Dat!" She pretended to slap and choke him. "Dat!" Teeth took hold of his shoulder and neck. "Dat!" she told him, biting lightly.
"Jesus Christ, what a monster," Lewrie agreed as she sat back up.
"Whi' lak dead, him!" Wei Yen shuddered once more. "Bear' mak sclatch. No wan' guhl, wan' bebbee. No wan' bebbee guhl him on top! Him wan'…" She slipped off to one side of the bed, knelt with her head on the pillow, arms held behind her back as though they would be tied if with Choundas, then slapped her rump.
"Wan' go ba' place, allee same guhl place."
"The pervert!" Lewrie growled. "What an utterly rotten bastard!"
" 'Otten bassah'?" Wei Yen said, sitting up once again.
"Rotten," Lewrie corrected.
"Lotten bassah," the girl parroted, then said it to herself several times, trying "pervert" on for addition to her vocabulary as well.
"Well, you're not with him now, you're with me. And I'm not a rotten bastard, or a pervert," Lewrie assured her, drawing her down to him. "Well, not much of one, anyway."
Then there came a muffled scream from down the hallway, and a series of yelps. Wei Yen stiffened in his arms, burying her face in the pillows. "It him, red ha' fo'n debbil!"
"He's still here!" Lewrie said, starting off the bed, almost dragging the frightened Wei Yen with him. "Oh, what luck!"
More wails of terror and pain, hiccupy little strangling wails such as a very young girl, one even younger than Wei Yen, would make. The sound of cuffs or blows, perhaps, preceding each new outcry.
Lewrie went to the door and opened it to hear better, even as Wei Yen tried to drag him back. He saw another door open, saw Captain Jacques Sicard lumbering to the noise as the madam and one of her bully-bucks came up the stairs from the front of the bordello, their sing-song voices sounding anything but musical. Sicard was rapping on the door, whispering "Guillaume!"
Lewrie ducked back as Sicard began to remonstrate with the madam, opening a purse to pay her off for whatever damage or harm his man was causing. Another door opened, only a couple of rooms beyond his own, and a distinguished Chinese gentleman emerged, drawn to the commotion. He stopped in his tracks, though, and squinted his eyes, when he saw Lewrie, just shutting his door.
"You no go, him hu't!" Wei Yen rasped, dragging him back into the room completely and slamming the door with her behind. "Ver' ba' man, him! Wei Yen mak you contentee, no silla, you stay 'way!"
"What are they saying?" Alan asked, trying to shake the little baggage loose from her death-grip on his body and find his stockings.
"Him pay muchee silla, muchee tael cash fo' Yi," Wei Yen translated. "Olio woman Ma she say fo'n debbil go, him, no comee back. Is good!"
Doors opened. Voices rumbled in Chinese, pidgin and French as Lewrie began to dress, much against his better judgement. Wei Yen was trying her damnedest to coax him back into bed with her. But he'd had his fun, expensive as it had been, even if it had been Twigg's money. He had to be ready to shadow Choundas once he left the brothel.
With his stockings and shoes on, his breeches pulled up and buckled, he heard footsteps coming his way. Ignoring the girl's protestations, he stepped to the door and opened it just a crack, standing well back in the shadows so he could see what was happening.
The shoes sounded different. Two pair, perhaps, of hard-soled European shoes with heavy heels. And the swishing sound of a pair of slippers.
Alan saw the Chinese man, now dressed in an elegantly embroidered silk robe, with a round pillbox hat on his head adorned with one coral button on the top and a long peacock or pheasant feather. The man cut his eyes towards his companions.
And there were Sicard and Choundas, shoulder to shoulder behind the Chinese man. Sicard paced on past, but Choundas slowed down to a crawl as he passed the crack in the door. And he grinned! A brief, sardonic, mocking grin, before resuming his pace and joining his companions!
The cheeky bugger, Alan thought at first. His second thought was for a weapon. For that brief glance was as chilling as coming face to face with Old Scratch himself! There was no shame in the leering grin. No fear of discovery. Only scorn for whoever it was behind the door.
I'll wager he grinned 'cause he thinks there's a poor whore in here he's tortured before, Alan thought. Gloating at her. Or maybe he was daring whoever he took me for to come out and say or do something about it.
Or, he realized with another chill of dread, that Chinee bugger saw enough of me and recognized me. Christ! "Sorry love, duty calls. Damme her eyes. This is for you," he said, handing over two of Twigg's golden guineas. "I go follow bad man. And when we catch him…"
He made a scritch sound and the motion of cutting a throat.
Alan trotted out of the door for the end of Old Clothes Street where it opened out onto the wider main road. He looked about for a sign of Twigg or Wythy, for Will Cony, but his was the only Occidental face present. And, as he emerged, the number of Chinese in the dark street melted away into the doorways and the darkness between the few oil lamps.
He was almost out of the street when something made a quick swishing noise, and his skull exploded! There was a burst of light he could taste, something brassy-coppery, and then a pain that made him wish to scream like he never had before, except that it hurt so much to draw a deep breath that he couldn't! Without knowing how he had done it, he was face-down in the dust of the street, eyes barely able to focus on a pair of bare and horny feet at the edge of his vision. They were coming towards him. A knee appeared, as if whoever it was was preparing to kneel.
Without thinking, he lashed out with his left arm and leg, and the agony that doubled and redoubled in his head was so exquisite he found breath this time, gasping for air to let out a scream of pain as he swept whoever it was off his feet.
The man went down, overturning some baskets, spilling garbage against the dingy walls. A stout stave clattered against the bricks. Howling with more pain, Alan clawed himself onto his assailant, but the man retrieved the stave and rolled over to strike him across the top of his shoulders. Alan yelled some more, though the blows didn't hurt. Nothing could hurt as bad as his skull did in comparison!
The man went down, overturning some baskets, spilling garbage against the dingy walls. A stout stave clattered against the bricks. Howling with more pain, Alan clawed himself onto his assailant, but the man retrieved the stave and rolled over to strike him across the top of his shoulders. Alan yelled some more, though the blows didn't hurt. Nothing could hurt as bad as his skull did in comparison!
There seemed to be other cries now, stirred up by his howl-ings, and the drumming of feet heading toward the street opening. His foe shrugged Alan off and got to his feet to flee, but Alan got both hands around one ankle and held on for dear life, getting dragged through dirt and garbage for his pains. He could smell blood. He could smell mildew, his face pressed against the back of the assailant's ankle: the salt and mildew-moldy reek of a sailor's clothing.
The man stumbled to one knee, kicked backward to free himself as Lewrie tried to scale him, nails rasping on rough duck cloth as he got a couple of fingers in the man's waistband from the rear. More blows from the stave, one on the skull again, this one bringing back the explosion of light once more.
He couldn't hold on, and dropped away. The next blow swished past his drooping pate to thock! on the wall with a horribly hard blow.
"Hold on there, ye bastard!" Alan heard a voice say, and then there was a flash of light that winked as Alan tried to look up, one small glimmer of flickering oil lamps on metal. Knife!
Ignoring his skull for his life, he scuttled back against the wall, turning over more tall wicker baskets as he tried to rise and crab his way up the rough bricks. A shadow bulked from the street entrance.
"He's got a knife, Mister Wythy, look out!" Alan screamed.
Two bodies swayed against each other. Two quick blows. Two more winks of steel, and then the foe was gone, running east down Thirteen Factory Street for the creek and the plank bridge. There was a hue and cry, the babble of Chinese voices.
"My God," Wythy sighed as he stumbled to the wall to lean on it, sinking to his knees. "My God!"
Alan lurched away from the wall to sink to his own knees by the older man as Wythy pressed both hands over his abdomen. "That bloody bastard!" He grimaced, his expression turning to a cock-eyed grin of sarcastic surprise. "Think the bastard's killed me!"
"Hoy!" Alan called, his head splitting with every breath. "Hoy the watch! A man's been stabbed here! Somebody help us!"
"Oh my God," Wythy whispered as his blood flowed like a spilled bottle of claret and steamed in the cool night air.
Alan staggered to the street entrance. Yes, sailors from a dozen nations were coming on the run. He could see Twigg and Percival, with Cony bringing up the rear.
"That way! A sailor with a knife! Somebody stop the bastard!" Alan yelled, and then his own vision began to turn into a dim tunnel, pinpointing Twigg's ugly phyz.
He sank to his knees again. "Oh, will no one catch the murdering shit?" he moaned.
"Oh… my… God," Wythy wept in reply.
Chapter 7
The Consoo House was crowded with traders, ship's captains and Europeans for the execution. The eight members of the Co Hong sat to one side, trade taking a poor second place to justice in this instance. The Chinese mandarin Viceroy for Canton sat on his inlaid throne on a pile of silk pillows, with his Banner Men soldiers behind him, and his linguist at his feet.
Lewrie had missed the trial, laid up with a concussion, but he had been told it was a brief affair. The Chinese officials had been highly upset that one of their strictures had been violated. There had been more than a strong rumor that all foreign-devil ships would be ordered out of Chinese waters if more of these fights between the French and English occurred.
"Fight, Hell!" Alan had protested, but Twigg had told him to stay silent. There was too much pressure from the East India Company to let it go for what it appeared to be: a bungled attempt at robbery by a drink-addled French sailor on an English trader. Trade was too good this season. The pickings corning down from the hinterland were the best anyone had ever seen, and the prices were for once reasonable.
So Twigg had to sit silent and let his friend and partner pass over as a man in the wrong place at the wrong time, who had died trying to aid an English shipmate. It had taken Wythy a couple of days to die, from the suppuration of two deep belly wounds that were untreatable and a death sentence. Lockjaw had been added to the insufferable agonies of his last night on earth.
The surgeon had shaved Alan's head, staunched the bleeding and sewn up the pressure cut. For the moment he was forced to wear a wig until his hair grew back out.
"M'seurs," someone said in a soft voice from behind them.
Alan turned awkwardly. It still hurt to turn his head, so he pivoted on one heel.
"Guillaume Choundas, capitaine, La Poisson D'Or. A votre service" he said. "I am mos' sorry for your loss. Zat it was a French sailor who did this… words cannot express my sorry."
Twigg laid a hand on Lewrie's arm before he exploded.
Choundas was turned out in his Sunday Divisions best, a dark blue master's coat trimmed in white lace and silver buttons, short white tie-wig over his dull ginger hair, silk shirt and neck-cloth, dark red waist-coat and black breeches and stockings. On his left sleeve, he wore a wide black riband, tied in a bow. In mourning for the French sailor.
Choundas turned up the corners of his mouth in a sad smile. He had droop-cornered eyes, orbs of a pale, washed-out blue that were as icy as Greenland bergs, though, belying his evident sorrow.
"Zis pauvre homme, messieurs," Choundas went on. "Zis poor lad. what 'e did was…" A Gallic shrug. "But 'e was in drink, n'est-ce pas! A good matelot. One of mine, as you know. 'E is tres … so very young, messieurs. Surely, Brittanique gentilhommes such as you may find ze Christiani-te.. ."
"Not my decision, sir," Twigg said, glaring. "He killed one of mine!"
"Ah, mais ouis, mais ouis, m 'seur Tweeg," Choundas sighed like a disappointed suitor. "Ze Chinetoque courts, zo, zey do take… uhmm… like ze Gauls ancien… what your Saxon ancestors called 'were-gild,' messieurs."
"Blood-money?" Lewrie gasped.
Amusement danced in those pale eyes as Choundas turned his slack-jawed gaze to him. "Ze lad by zis courts could be freed to return to 'is aged parents, 'is young wife and child, m'seur Looray. And you still live. 'E did not mean to 'arm anyone. 'E was drunk, in need of money. 'E did not mean to kill, 'e 'as sworn to me!"
Choundas put his hands together as if at prayer and his face became even more droopy-eyed, like a dog whose master has just yelled at him. "Your m'seur Weethy frighten 'im. 'E only wan' to flee. Please, m'seur, I beg you, as 'is capitaine, as a Christian gentilhomme. As a fellow Brittanique who share I'ancestrie with all ze sires of notre race… Celts, Gauls, hien? Spare 'im! Mon Dieu, in the name of God, spare 'im! Tell ze court you take ze… blood money, if you will name it zo. Whatever sum you wish, messieurs! Name ze price and I swear to pay it!"
Lewrie was shaken by Choundas' demeanor. He certainly seemed sincere. But then, so did Sir Hugo, when he desired something. A fine pair they'd make, he thought sourly: both of them consummate actors. And frauds! And damme, if he ain't laughing at us, even now, I swear. Standing there, judging his performance. Like I do, I have to admit, now and again. But, bedamned to the bugger!
Twigg took his arm and gave his elbow a squeeze.
"I could be prepared to spare the young fellow, if he was only confused and drunk, Captain Choundas," Twigg replied slowly, weighing every word. "As you say, we are of one race, sprung from the selfsame root-stock that flourished in Gaul and Brittania before the time of the Caesars… before the German barbarians came… the Romans."
"Ah, mais ouis, mais ouis!" Choundas nodded, his eyes glinting with unexpected triumph. The pious expression he wore flickered to a revealing brief smile, a smile tainted with just the faintest bit of a leer at Twigg's stupidity.
"He is awfully young, is he not, sir," Twigg sighed, and his stern visage creased into a grin. "God, I pity the poor…"
Surely not! Alan thought.
"But, the courts have given their decision. Death by strangulation. To put a curb on this unfortunate animosity between English and French in their port. The assault on one of my ship's officers, and, no matter the reasons, the death of my most trusted and beloved longtime partner, Tom Wythy, with a forbidden weapon, well…"
"Ah, but m'seur Tweeg…" Choundas floundered a bit.
"And the poor lad, when one gets right to the meat of it, is a lice-ridden, scurrilous Frog, ain't he now, Captain Choundas? A murdering cut-throat son of a Frog bitch, ditch-dropped by a Frog whore!" Twigg went on, those lips pursing, temples pounding, but a beatific grin creasing his lower face. "A brisket-beating superstitious slave to Rome, and, like all French of my acquaintance, born under a threepenny, ha'penny planet, never to be worth a groat!"
Choundas recoiled as if slapped, dropping his pious pose and slitting his eyes.
"If this court don't scrag him, I'll volunteer to twist the cords myself, sir!" Twigg rasped.
"You play with me, m'seur, you make ze sport…!"
"Far as I know, you play with yourself, you sans coulotte peasant," Twigg barked. "Why don't you go back to eatin' snails and catchin' an honest fishmonger's farts?"
"You insult me beyond all honneur, m'seur, I demand…"
"Try it and see whose ship gets booted out of this port, sir. Try it and see who ends up in a Chinee grave!" Twigg hissed. "Who knows, from what Mister Lewrie tells me, your demise might make a few poor whores happier'n pigs in shit! Takes more'n that pitiful excuse for a beard to make a man a real man, right, Mister Lewrie?"
"To quote the Bard, sir, 'Who is he who is blessed with one appearing hair.' Or something like that," Lewrie fumbled out.
"Only French have I'honneur) You English have none!"
"Perhaps, but we do have bloody marvelous artillery," Twigg simpered. "Do but give us the opportunity to prove it to you."
Choundas spun on his heel and stalked noisily away to join the rest of the French traders and ship-captains, heels ringing on marble.
"Good on you, sir," Alan said firmly. "That was bloody well said! Told that perverted monster off good and proper."
"Do but dwell upon this, Mister Lewrie," Twigg whispered, turning back to the court as the accused was led in. "We might have just struck flint to tinder, created a blaze hot enough to goad him into something rash. Like following us once we leave Canton, 'stead of us having to track him. The gloves are off now, ours and his. For old Tom Wythy's sake, I'll have that bastard's heart's blood. You watch your back from now on, 'cause it's war to the knife!"
The Viceroy began to speak, sing-songing formal phrases which his linguist translated bit by bit for the foreigners. "By the will of our Emperor, Son of Heaven, Complete Abundance, Solitary Prince, Celestial Emperor, Lord of the Middle Kingdom and swayer of the wide world… my master, Viceroy for the prefecture… in the City of Rams, Yu Quang Shen Wang speaks. Hear his words, make kow tow and obey, tremblingly!"
The eight members of the Co Hong and their creatures, and every Chinese went flat on the floor, while the Europeans performed elaborate bows, doffing hats and making legs. The British barely inclined their bare heads.
"Psst," Lewrie said, nudging Twigg when the linguist began again. "Third from the right, sir. Do you mark him?" he whispered from the corner of his mouth and cut his eyes to Twigg, who swiveled to glare at a minor mandarin in a sumptuously thick and rich embroidered silk robe and pillbox cap with coral button and feather. Twigg nodded and turned back to face the Viceroy on his throne.
"… and disturb the heavenly harmony of our Celestial Kingdom! We tolerate the rude behavior… of foreign-devil barbarians who know no better… the export of our valuable goods… in exchange for what worthless items they bring to the City of Rams… until such time as they displease us beyond measure. You are quarrelsome slaves whose crude barbarian chieftains cannot control… your rustic kings have sent ambassadors to pledge fealty to our Celestial Emperor… made their kow tow to recognize the superiority of the Son of Heaven… made themselves subjects to the one who sways the wide world… the foreign-devil Louis of France… the foreign-devil George of England… so that the Solitary Prince might stay his hand and not conquer them."
"Like to see the buggers try!" Lewrie muttered.
"Hush!" Twigg warned with a hiss.
"We order that there be no more fighting!" the linguist shouted. "No more murderings! Or the Lord of the Middle Kingdom shall withdraw his chop for you to be here! See the punishment! Witness tremblingly, and obey!"
"Damme!" Lewrie was forced to say as he recognized the prisoner. It was Choundas' cox'n, the one in the sampan with him the morning they'd first seen him.
The executioner came forward with a silk rope while two Banner Men soldiers held the sailor by each arm and led him into the center of the gathering and made him kneel down. For a man about to be garroted, the seaman seemed unusually calm, gazing about disoriented but obeying the soldiers without struggle. His eyes seemed glazed and his mouth hung open slackly, with a bit of drool at one corner.
"They've drugged him," Twigg whispered. "Lots of opium. I doubt he even knows what's about to occur."
They strangled him, taking their time about it, too, applying one turn of the silk rope at a time, then waiting to see the results. The executioner looked gleeful as he readjusted his grip before taking another twist or two, which had all the Europeans muttering and shuffling, some coughing.
They continued to strangle him slowly, until the man's tongue stood out, and his face went blue. His head was so suffused with blood, his eves almost nonned. and trickles of blood ran like sparse tears until he went totally limp and ceased breathing.
Lewrie found it as satisfying as any hanging he'd ever seen at Tyburn, though the poor wretch hadn't had his wits about him enough to go game, with a final japery or two, and a crowd of fellow bucks cheering him on, the doxies throwing flowers and kisses to a brave rogue. He turned his head to look at the French, Choundas particularly. Surprisingly, for one so affected by the sad fate of one of his own crew, Choundas was remarkably blase about it, standing slack and bored with his weight on one leg. He looked more like a man waiting for his coach to be brought round, ready to drag out a pocket watch and wonder what was keeping his ostler. Choundas looked around and shot a glare at them.