China Flyer by Porter Hill Page B

in horror at the smoke and confusion around him. Groping to steady himself, he tried to attain his balance but the cannon sent forth another volley and he went sliding across deck.
    Horne’s attention was diverted to an explosion across the water. A few seconds later the deck shook beneath his feet.
    The Sulus had scored their first strike. But there was no time to worry about damage. He looked fore as the prow speared its way through the enemy line, Sulu cries drowning the smashing of wood, the ripping of the praus’ palm-mat sails.
    Kiro’s guns recoiled a third time. Worried about the enemy’s response, Horne raised the spyglass and saw through the smoke that the lead praus were still struggling to make their stays.
    Another impact shook the deck.
    The strike had hit the larboard—from the praus which had been lingering to the rear.
    Looking astern, Horne saw the side escort’s shot splashing in the sea, unable to make its mark.
    The wind strong at her stern, the Huma sped onwards through the wreckage of the northern escorts, through men clinging to boards and bits of mat sail.
    It had worked! The flock of brown sparrows was left behind in disarray as the big seabird swept away from their circle.
    Relieved and triumphant, the crew broke into abandoned shouts and cries, hugging one another, waving bandanas, ripping off the dhotis from their loins to fly them high in the rigging, wildly slashing the cotton strips back and forth as they danced on deck.
    Horne’s face creased into a smile as he witnessed the hands’ jubilation. Raising the spyglass to his eye, he was gratified to see the Sulu praus floundering in disarray to the south.
    Babcock slapped his back. ‘You crafty old fox, Horne. You did it.’
    Jingee was still anxious. ‘Will they catch us, Captain sahib?’
    ‘They’re too tangled,’ answered Horne, studying the distant confusion through his spyglass. ‘The praus changing course are careering into one another.’
    Babcock filled his lungs with fesh air, booming, ‘This wind at our arse will soon put the miles ‘tween us, too.’
    Horne was indeed grateful for the fresh wind that blew them northwards. Wondering what lay ahead, he swept the horizon for any sign of sail. They now had to concentrate on the purpose of the mission—overtaking the China Flyer.

Chapter Sixteen
MACAO—THE CHINA FLYER
    The China Flyer approached Macao through a channel less than a mile wide, guarded each side by a squat fort. The roadstead beyond was crowded with boxy fishing junks, European merchantmen tilting at anchor, sampans with central awnings. There were canoes and rafts among the sampans, paddled by men, women and children noisily hawking fruit, vegetables or poultry, shrilling their availability to do laundry, sew clothing or provide love.
    Lothar Schiller stood on board the China Flyer, sipping a cup of bitter tea in the dank morning as he appraised the ramshackle wooden houses and rickety bamboo moorings dotting the swamps. The gilded crosses crowning the distant Catholic missions did nothing to alter his impression of Macao as one of the ugliest, most uninviting settlements he had ever seen.
    A tapping against the deck attracted his attention. He turned but did not immediately recognise the man approaching him.
    Attired in a raspberry-silk frock-coat and powdered wig, George Fanshaw wobbled towards Schiller in high-heeled court shoes, tapping an imperious ivory staff against the deck as he walked.
    Mein Gott! Does this fool think he looks like a gentleman? Schiller fought to suppress a howl of laughter as Fanshaw advanced towards him in the foppish outfit.
    Flicking a lace handkerchief, Fanshaw ordered, ‘Neither you, Mr Schiller, nor the crew shall go ashore in Macao.’
    â€˜How long do we stay here?’ asked Schiller, and forcedhimself to add, ‘—Herr Fanshaw?’ He must try to remain respectful until Fanshaw had paid him his money.
    â€˜I go now to seek the Hoppo’s