Scalpdancers (11 page)

“I came to help,” Julia said.

“Thanks.”

“I did keep that man from shooting you.”

“Thanks.”

“Well, of all the ungrateful …”

“Oh, Christ, what do you want me to say?”

“You can just try to mean it, is all.”

“When I throw this lantern, pick up your dress and run like hell,” Morgan said. Seven of Chiang Lu's killers closing in and Miss Julia Emerson was worried about sincerity.

“What will you do?” Julia asked, retreating a step as the assassins started forward.

“Probably pass you,” Morgan said. “Now run!” He shoved Julia in the direction of her father's ship, hurled the lantern, and took off after her. The lantern exploded at the feet of the hooded men and doused several of Chiang Lu's private guard with flaming oil. Morgan's attackers leapt about in a mad dance as they slapped at their smoldering calves and thighs and cursed the fleeing couple.

Gunfire erupted in the night yet again. Morgan winced, ducked on reflex, and steeled himself against the shock of a wound. Nothing? He glanced over his shoulder and to his heartfelt relief saw Temp Rawlins, Tim Britchetto, and another of the
Hotspur's
crew, a swarthy gunner named Hoyt, rush from the warehouse, their flintlocks blazing as they caught the Blue Wing Dragons by surprise, dropping two of the killers.

Chiang Lu's men tried to regroup in the face of Temp's attack, but a second volley came from the muskets of Macao's
polizia
—down the Rue de Lorchas. The Portuguese constabulary had entered the fray.

Outnumbered and outgunned, Chiang Lu's men melted like phantoms into the night.

“Come back,” Tim Britchetto shouted. “You bastards killed my brother. I'm not done with you!” But the fleeing killers paid him no mind. Tim would never forget the sight of Jocko lying dead on the burning deck of the
Hotspur
.

Temp Rawlins ran over to Morgan. The old man's features were powderburned. Blood seeped from a flesh wound on his right arm. He was too angry to notice his injury.

“They were all over the
Hotspur
. Never even seen or heard 'em till they towed her away from the pier. Don Rodrigo went for the police. Tim and Hoyt and me had to fort up in the warehouse.” The old seaman spat and wiped his mouth on his forearm. “I told you chasin' a dress would be your ruin. You should have been here, Captain. Not playing ‘bushy park' with the parson's daughter.”

Morgan flushed and looked away. He had no defense. Temp's admonition cut him as deep as the bite of any lash.

“Nothing happened.”

“Don't tell me,” Temp said. “Tell him.” He looked past the young captain without a ship.

Morgan turned and saw the Reverend Emile Emerson marching toward him. Julia was matching her father step for step.

“Oh no,” Morgan sighed. His pulse raced, adrenaline pumping, the blood lust slow to dissolve. He shifted his attention to the
Hotspur
. Blackened remains, ravaged timbers, he watched the remnants of a shattered hull slip beneath the surface of the water, dragging with it a broken spar that trailed a swath of canvas sail like a shroud. What more could happen this night?

“Signore Penmerry,” a man called out from the
polizia
as they arrived on the scene led by Don Rodrigo. One of their number, a handsome aristocrat in rumpled military attire, his scarlet short coat festooned with soiled gold braid, a plumed helmet tucked beneath his arm, stepped forward to introduce himself. The rest of his command kept their muskets pointed ominously at Morgan. “I am Capitano Jorge Rossi. And it is my unpleasant duty to place you under arrest for the robbery and murder of the merchant Chiang Lu.”

6

The last of the fires flickered out and the street would have been plunged into darkness but for the lanterns carried by the
polizia
and Don Rodrigo. It was to this diminutive merchant that Morgan turned.

Capitano Jorge Rossi had repeated the one phrase he could say in English, Russian, French, Chinese, Spanish, and even Arabic. Beyond his statement of arrest he could converse only in Portuguese and French. Rossi would have cut a dashing figure with his narrow face and heavy black eyebrows except for the look of resignation in his red-rimmed eyes. Lamplight did little to hide the veins that crisscrossed his prominent cheekbones and the unhealthy pallor of a man given to excess drink. Morgan had heard rumors that the
capitano
was the errant offspring of nobility, banished to a posting in Macao as punishment for bedding his own sister. Morgan didn't relish the idea of placing himself in the custody of a man totally without scruples. A streak of larceny was one thing, total decadence quite another.

The
polizia
had arranged themselves into a single rank, a couple of feet apart. To Morgan's right stood the
Hotspur's
three remaining crewmen, watching first their captain then the
polizia
. Julia Emerson stood just behind Morgan, as astonished as he at the news of Chiang Lu's demise.

Emile Emerson, quite out of breath from his exertions, covered the remaining few yards at a trot, brushed past his daughter, and confronted Morgan. He was relieved Julia was unharmed and furious at the man who had taken her God-knew-where, done God-knew-what, and carried her into a melee in which she might have been killed.

“By heaven, sir, I will have a word with you!” he proclaimed, his round features livid with rage. Before the portly missionary could vent his spleen at the brigand who had “kidnapped” his daughter, the
polizia
once again intruded.

“Signore Emerson,” Rossi began. “It is my unpleasant duty to also arrest you for the murder of Chiang Lu.”

The reverend was all set to unleash his righteous anger. He sputtered several unintelligible words, his face aghast.

“Is this what you call going for help, Don Rodrigo?” Morgan growled, his rugged features streaked with perspiration.

Don Rodrigo shifted his weight on his spindly legs and tried to make the best of an embarrassing situation. “My friend, it is none of my doing. Chiang Lu's body was found in his garden, his throat slashed. The Portuguese position in Macao is fragile at best. Despite Chiang Lu's many rivals, there will be a hue and cry over his murder.” The bullet-headed little man shrugged and kicked the red mud from his boots of Spanish leather. “The guilty parties need to be brought to justice. Quickly. You understand.”

“Yeah, we're elected,” Morgan said.

“There will be a tribunal, of course. You may declare your innocence…”

“And then be handed over to the Chinese for execution,” Emerson interrupted, his quarrel with Morgan momentarily set aside. He had lived in Macao long enough to know that justice was the casualty of expediency. Even as despair settled on him like a cloak, Emerson found in this blackest hour a kernel of hope, of faith unextinguishable. He had not been abandoned.
Trust in the Lord
, Emerson told himself as he stared into the guns of the
polizia. Lord, send all thy angelic host to rescue your poor servant, that all may know the goodness and the glory and the power of God
. The reverend silently prayed and closed his eyes.

Salvation came not in the form of some celestial servant dispatched from the throne of the Almighty but in two hundred thirty-five pounds of whipcord and whalebone, of muscle and guts, of foxlike cunning and never-say-die bravado. Salvation came in the form of a man.

During his interchange with Don Rodrigo, Morgan Penmerry had gradually edged closer to the warehouse owner until at last the smaller man was in reach. Don Rodrigo kept a small-caliber flintlock tucked in his belt. Morgan swallowed, and rehearsed in his mind what must happen. He'd only have one chance and he'd have to make it count.

Capitano Jorge Rossi turned to his command and barked an order. The
polizia
moved to separate Morgan and Emerson from the others on the pier. While Julia, Temp, and the rest were trying to think of something to do, Morgan acted. He snared Don Rodrigo's belly gun, cocked the weapon, and placed the cold steel muzzle against Rossi's throat to keep him from bolting. The
polizia
turned their muskets on Morgan.

“Don Rodrigo, tell the
capitano
here that unless Rossi's men back off, it will be my unpleasant duty to blow his brains out,” Morgan said. He expected at least some hesitation on Rossi's part, to save face at least. Instead, Rossi frantically ordered his men to retreat and lower their weapons.

“Appears the
capitano
here has a guilty conscience,” Morgan observed dryly. He turned to Emerson.

“Rouse your crew and lower the johnny boats,” Morgan said. “We'll tow the
Magdalene
away from the pier till we catch a breeze.”

“We?” Emerson coldly questioned.

“Sure,” Morgan replied. “You need a pilot and I'm captain of nothing but wreckage. I'll bring you to Astoria, but the
Magdalene
is mine when I've seen you through.”

“See here—” the reverend blurted. The scoundrel had absconded with his daughter and now had the audacity to assume a kind of partnership. “Of, of all the impossible … nerve. Do you think I would take you on after what has transpired, after you—with my daughter—the very gall.”

“Have it your way,” Morgan said with a shrug. “Stand over there with Rossi's men. Temp, you take the lads to the
Magdalene
. We leave tonight. Tell Emerson's crew the reverend has been arrested and it's every man for himself.”

“You can't be serious!” Julia exclaimed, hurrying over to confront Morgan. Her eyes reflected firelight through her mud-streaked features.

“Your father made his choice,” Morgan told her.

“I won't allow it,” she snapped.

“You're in no position…”

“Wait!” the reverend said. He took a moment to compose himself. “I agree to your arrangements. Pilot us to Astoria.” He glared at Morgan. “And when we reach our destination, you and I will settle what is between us. But I expect your conduct to be above reproach.”

“You have my word,” Morgan said. He then turned back to Don Rodrigo. “Tell the
capitano
he will be my guest until we are out in the estuary. Then we'll give him a boat and point him to shore.”

Don Rodrigo translated. The
capitano
retorted, rapid-fire, the merchant replied, and so the two went back and forth. In the end Don Rodrigo prevailed, his argument given credence by the gun at Rossi's skull.

“He says you are the son of a pig,” the little merchant said. “And many other things not so nice. But he will do as you tell him.”

As a sign of good faith the
capitano
cracked an order and his guard followed by placing their muskets on the ground. Morgan took his prisoner by the arm and started down the Rue de Lorchas, and the rest fell into step around him. Morgan kept the gun visibly pressed to Rossi's head to keep any of his men from trying anything. Emerson, walking abreast of Morgan, stared at him as they hurried toward the waiting bark.

“What is it?” Morgan finally asked, made curious by the man's scrutiny.

“You weren't what I expected,” replied the man of God. “No gold sword, no shining wings, certainly no halo.”

“Don't lose heart, Dr. Emerson.” Morgan flashed a wicked grin. “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

Demetrius Vlad could have had Jorge Rossi killed, but there might come a day when Vlad would have need of the Rossi family's influence. Better to take the incompetent officer under his wing and use him—or dispose of him—later.

The Russian dug his boot heels into the mud at the edge of the shore where the mouth of the Pearl emptied into the sea. Islands like humpback whales rose out of a morning mist made golden as the newly risen sun broke through the overcast sky. A wind gust tugged at the hem of Vlad's dark green greatcoat and curled the rolling waves a frothy white.

Rossi, arms weary from having to row to shore after being set adrift from the
Magdalene
, chattered incessantly, explaining for the third time that Morgan had tricked him, Don Rodrigo had tricked him, fate itself had tricked him. It wasn't his fault. None of it was his fault and he washed his hands of any blame.

“Which doesn't change the fact that the Chinese will have your head for allowing Chiang Lu's murderers to escape,” Vlad chuckled, tucking his hands in his greatcoat as he watched a lonely gull spiral over the rolling tide.

Rossi started to counter, but caught himself. He was finished in Macao. The sooner he abandoned the post, the better.

“What will I do?” Rossi pleaded. Looking past the Russian, he saw Abdul dismount near the sulky that had brought Vlad and the
capitano
out onto this narrow, treeless peninsula. The Moroccan tethered his mount to the broken, battered bow of a johnboat jutting from the mud. Abdul headed for the two men at land's end, his purposeful strides carrying him along the length of the narrow peninsula. He wore loose-fitting undyed nankeen trousers, a cotton shirt, and a waistcoat of black broadcloth. He'd tucked a brace of pistols in the wide leather belt circling his waist. Moisture streaked his ebony features as he approached.

Demetrius Vlad stepped back to take Abdul's report. Vlad folded his arms across his chest and stroked his close-cropped beard. A recently changed gauze bandage covered the terrible wound that was Morgan Penmerry's legacy.

“I have arranged for the water, dried fruit, and a supply of salted fish. Our men will begin loading as soon as it arrives at the pier,” Abdul explained. “There is a rice farmer named Lao who would be willing to butcher his hogs for the right price.”

Vlad nodded. “Meet his price and see about powder and shot. And Madame De Builliard no doubt can supply us with rum. She has done so in the past. But none of that swill she calls wine; I'd sooner drink your stallion's water.”