Hangman's Point - Chapter 3

Chapter 3

31 December 1856 Wednesday Evening

THE dinghy slipped soundlessly into the starboard shadow of an American barkentine and the two men in the boat held their breath while the black-hulled, four-oared, water-police boat passed to the west. The police boat was rowed silently by dark-faced Tanka Chinese in their green police coats and by Sikh constables in their native dress topped with maroon and black turbans. They passed close enough so that the men in the dinghy could discern the buttons on the coats and the thin gold strips on the turbans. One European constable armed with a percussion cap pistol and a short, broad cutlass sat in the sternsheets as stiffly as a corpse. He stared into the patch of darkness where Adams and Robinson sat frozen in their dingy, gripping blackened oars in muffled oarlocks then, noticing nothing, looked away.

Once the police boat had passed, the men expertly and smoothly glided the dinghy away from the Hong Kong side of the harbor toward where the captured mandarin junk lay anchored astern of the British brig. From Andrew Adams's view on the port side of the dinghy, the brig's slightly swaying bowsprit lantern seemed to be rolling about the dark mass of mountains on the Kowloon side of the harbor, now nearly indistinguishable in the darkness from the night itself.

Adams gripped his oar and passed the bottle of whiskey to the hollow-cheeked, weasel of a man beside him; the man gave him a feral grin and nodded an exaggerated thank you. He somehow managed to keep his filthy cap on as he threw his head back and gulped it down, whiskey dribbling onto his black-and-white whiskers and tattered seaman's jacket.

He pressed his mouth to his sleeve to smother a wracking cough. Adams had heard the same harsh cough in other men he had known in the East. A cough created by love of drink which eventually got even the best of men dismissed from service on even the worst of ships.

A French frigate was anchored near the luxurious East Point bungalow of the colony's leading British company, Jardine-Matheson, and music from a New Year's Eve party on board drifted across the harbor to the two men in the boat. No doubt musicians had been borrowed from the private band aboard Admiral Seymour's 74-gun frigate. Ship captains joined with Hong Kong's elite to dance on the weather deck beneath strings of colored lanterns while, at midships, 'ladies' and 'gentlemen' drank champagne and rum punch. The moon hovered just above the frigate's mizzenmast as if the heavens themselves were holding a ball-shaped lantern aloft in honor of Hong Kong's ruling class.

Adams reflected that men like himself might live in Hong Kong for a hundred years and never receive an invitation to an elite affair or even an acknowledgement from Hong Kong's elite that men such as Andrew Adams existed. He knew from experience that the lines dividing the classes of whites in Hong Kong were as firm as that which divided "foreign devils" from the "celestials."

Along the northern shore of Hong Kong Island, to the west, lights from the town of Victoria lit up the lower reaches of the mountain known as "the Peak." The brightest lights were from the "European" houses spread out above Queen's Road and, to the east, from Murray Barracks. West of the Barracks and well above the brilliantly lit Hong Kong Club they could see the lights of Government House. Adams imagined for a moment the fourth governor of Hong Kong, Sir John Bowring, leaning over a table to make a shot in his private billiard room or entertaining Hong Kong's elite in his saloon. He smiled at the thought of spicing up the governor's evening with an unexpected diversion.

Adams smelled the whiskey breath of the man beside him and knew he would most likely regret bringing Peter Robinson to assist him; for one thing his years of firing cannons in a myriad of sea battles for one navy or another had left him all but deaf. But Weslien still had not arrived and Robinson was the only one foolhardy enough to accompany him; and before he had been relieved of duty for drunkenness he had probably captained more gun crews aboard more ships than anyone in Hong Kong.

Adams knew how much pride Weslien took in never being late on the Canton to Hong Kong run and he feared the worst. But, as Robinson has said, there was nothing they could do about it until morning light; then they'd hire someone to take them upriver. Besides, Adams had heard gup in the tavern that the Chinese junk might be towed by a steam frigate to Macao the following morning. It had to be done tonight.

Adams gave a sigh of relief when at last a bank of clouds passed across the moon and stars, darkening their patch of the harbor. They pulled their oars in perfect unison glided between an American steam-sloop and a British 16-gun paddle steamer. Adams reflected that if New Year's eve called forth extra lights as decoration it also insured that there would be less vigilance among inebriated crewmen who were even now too busy belting out bawdy chanteys to notice the small dingy passing silently through the darkness.

He could discern the outline of the huge junk looming up in the darkness ahead. At the bow, iron flukes had been secured to hardwood anchors with strips of bamboo. As they approached, the men rowed silently under the stern of the junk, most of which had been elaborately carved with geometric designs and decorated with fierce tigers. The raised quarter deck and high poop towered above them.

Adams scanned what he could see of the deck for any sign of a watch. He heard no sounds and saw no movement. Keeping a close eye on the deck of the nearby British brig, where he knew there would be a watch, he reached out and grabbed the junk's makeshift ladder and quickly secured the dinghy. Motioning to Peter to follow, Adams began climbing the rope ladder; just as the striking of ships' bells sounded ten o'clock from nearly every ship of any size in the harbor. Adams gripped the hemp rungs of the ladder and froze in place, his heart beating wildly. The bell at the brig's forecastle joined in sounding two pair of two bells and beneath the clanging he could hear Peter Robinson's violent fit of coughing.

After several seconds of silence, Adams climbed the ladder and slipped quietly over the side. Both men sat on the deck in shadow with their backs against the gunwale listening to the sounds of water lapping its bows and the creaking of its wood. They were so close to the brig they could hear the breeze blowing through her rigging.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness on deck, Adams could see that most of the junk's sails had been damaged by fire, the main mast had been partly blown away and the midships area was cluttered with debris. The British had given her a pounding before capturing her. He wondered if the Chinamen had put up much of a fight or if they had jumped overboard at the sound of the first cannonball.

At a crouch, they moved slowly to the stern and up to the poop deck. Again, Adams threw a quick glance toward the shore; this time he strained to see the lights below the European settlement in the area known as Taipingshan - "Great Peace Mountain." The area inhabited mainly by Chinese and disreputable "Europeans," and known for ramshackle housing, low class brothels, bawdy taverns and gambling and opium dens.

He knew by now nearly everyone in the Bee Hive Tavern would be listening expectantly. Anne Wilkinson, his live-in-lady for the last eleven months, would be serving drinks and angrily denouncing those who had dared Adams to do it. She had been dead set against his taking up the bet; Adams knew she was probably right - it meant a long prison term if he was caught, but if he could bring it off he would be ten quid richer. Plus he would have the satisfaction of having put one over on the Queen's Navy. In the end, a chance to take the mickey out of Hong Kong's "proper society" had proved irresistible.

Adams felt about his monkey bag to ensure that his powder horns and lint stock were secure and then rose to all of his six-foot height. Suddenly, the door of the forecastle on the brig opened. A shaft of light pierced the darkness and fell across the deck of the brig nearly reaching the bow of the junk. A figure walked slowly to the stern of the ship and leaned on the rail, lighting a pipe. As Adams and Robinson sank soundlessly back down into the shadows of the poop the figure called out to the junk. "Hey! McPhee!"

A man rose up from an area of darkness near the junk's bow and gave out a kind of lethargic hiss. "What is it?"

"Just makin' sure you don't get lonely over there. I'm pleased ta' see you're wide awake on New Year's Eve. But I wonder if you even know how many bells have gone."

The man aboard the junk gave forth with a stream of curses and slipped back down out of sight. Sounds of singing and laughter spilled out of the brig's forecastle. After another minute the man on the brig conversed briefly with a seaman on "first" watch and then reentered the forecastle and again all was dark and silent.

Adams reached to his neck and untied his kerchief. He motioned to his companion and slowly, cautiously stepping over nearly invisible tangles of rope and broken bits of bamboo battens, they crossed the deck and moved up behind the figure. The seaman was caught completely unaware. Adams quickly pinned his arms behind him as Robinson gagged him, then together they tied his arms with a double slip knot.

The two men carried the still struggling man to midships and then lowered him into the shadows behind the furled mainsail and what remained of the mainmast. Adams spoke quietly. "Just playing a practical joke, mate. Sorry about the inconvenience. But we'll have to ask you to keep real quiet until we've finished. You do understand, don't you?"

The man angrily tried to speak through his gag. Adams unsheathed the knife at his belt and pressed the blade against the soft skin below the man's Adam's apple. The man grew quiet and nodded. "Good. Now, are you the only deck watch on board?"

The sailor nodded.

Adams looked at the "8-pounders" lining the deck and the round shot nearby. The "eight pounds" referred to the weight of the ball the cannon fired, and he knew that even a poorly constructed Chinese 8-pound cannon would weigh several hundred pounds. The 24-pounders were still in place as well but the 8-pounders were all he needed; besides, it would be all he and Robinson could do to maneuver an 8-pounder. He had been concerned that the British might have already removed the shot and, against whatever odds, he'd have to try to break into the cannon store on the brig. But the British had seen no particular reason to expect any trouble from the Chinamen over one more captured "pirate" junk; especially with several ships-of-the-line of the British Navy anchored in the harbor.

"All right, then, we're going to fire a few of your 8-pounders as a royal salute to Her Majesty's Navy. Can we count on you to keep silent or do we have to send you off to dreamland?" As the man shook his head vigorously, Adams moved off to check the cannon.

Robinson took a long swig of whiskey and stared at the man - almost a boy - before him while fingering the hilt of his knife with his calloused fingers. Over his long period at sea, he had fought both with and against British bluejackets and he had developed very mixed feelings of deep comradeship and bitter enmity toward sailors of Her Majesty's Navy. In his early years in the Orient, he'd on more than one occasion risked his life to save a "bloody tar" from being waylaid by Chinese footpads in Hong Kong or kidnapped by Chinese pirates in the South China Sea, but now - wreck of a man that he was - neither the British nor the American Navy had any use for him and he felt the bitterness of a man who understood exactly in what degrading and undignified way he would end his days.

Robinson looked toward the nearest area of shore and saw the lights of North Barracks, the New Naval Stores and Wellington Battery. He looked toward the east and saw a few lights in the chop boat belonging to the wealthy and powerful tea trader, Richard Tarrant. He knew where to look for the Seaman's Hospital and he tried to spot any lights which might still be burning in its admissions office, but the area was already dark. Over the past few months, Robinson had spent several weeks there and he knew he would soon be there again - permanently. He and any seaman who could afford the seventy-five cents a day were allowed to cough themselves to death in the hospital's public ward.

But the wide eyes and extreme youth of the boy before him evoked memories of all the wide-eyed young men he had known at sea. The two British sailors who had been hanged from the foreyard arms for the "unnatural crime" - only one had begged for mercy but both had had eyes like his: filled with as much fear as there was water in the ocean. And the wide eyes of those who had died in battle at sea. "Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God..." And the sight of corpses sliding into their watery grave. To the circling sharks. And he remembered the long list of "D.D.'s" on the books of all the ships he'd sailed - "Discharged - dead." The ghosts who never left him. Except when he drank.

Robinson grew suddenly embarrassed as he realized he had spoken the words aloud. As Adams returned, Robinson stared into the frightened eyes of the callow young man before him and wondered if he too would end his days in one of the same undignified and loathsome ways as the others; as if for a seaman in the lower decks there was any other way. Finally, he poured a bit from the bottle onto the seaman's gag. "Wish us luck, you lymie bastard."

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Dean Barrett

© Dean Barrett. All rights reserved by the author.
(ISBN 0-9661899-1-4)
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