Laura Rowland - The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Bronte

“You are even more clever than I thought, Miss Bronte.” Kuan’s smile expressed both admiration and annoyance. “What a pity that you and I are on opposite sides. Together we might have accomplished great things.”

Flames from the burning navy ship rose behind him; his eyes shone with their own, mad light. “But you won’t get off this vessel. You might as well give up.” He beckoned to me.

I felt the strange lassitude, the weakening of my will, that he always induced. How tempted I was to surrender! How much easier that would be! “No,” I said, shaking my head in an effort to throw off Kuan’s spell. “Let us go!”

“Negotiate with the navy,” Hitchman urged Kuan. “Offer to hand over the hostages in exchange for our lives.”

Kuan gestured to Nick, who pulled Hitchman away and held on to him. As Kuan stepped closer to me, I fumbled the pistol I’d stolen from the Chinaman out of my pocket. I held it in both hands, aimed at him.

“Stop,” I said in a voice that trembled with panic. “Get away from us.”

Kuan froze, startled for a moment before he recovered his poise. “Don’t be ridiculous. Give me the gun, Miss Bronte.”

He held out his hand. His eyes compelled my obedience; they drew me into their fiery depths. “Don’t come any closer,” I quavered as the heavy pistol wobbled in my grip.

“You will not shoot me.” Confidence and scorn broadened Kuan’s smile. “You cannot.”

I feared he was right, for I had never killed and my very soul reviled the thought of taking a human life, even his. The lassitude encroached as my determination crumbled. Kuan now stood close enough to touch me, his face inches from the gun, his eyes intent on mine. The gun’s weight exerted a vast downward pull on my muscles, my spirit.

“Let us go,” I stammered, “or-or-”

“Or we’ll jump off the ship!” Bertie climbed up on the railing. “Come on, Vicky!”

Frightened out of her wits, she followed suit. She and Bertie sat perched atop the railing, their backs towards the roiling ocean. Horrified, I said, “Get down this instant!”

There was an abrupt pause in the shooting from the navy: The troops had spied the children and ceased fire. I saw alarm on Kuan’s face as he realized that Bertie was reckless enough to jump overboard with Vicky.

“If you jump, you’ll drown,” he told Bertie in a voice sharp with his fear of losing his hostages. “Now get off the railing.”

“All right, I will!” Bertie flung his arms around Vicky and toppled overboard. They disappeared from view. I heard a high-pitched scream from Vicky, then a splash.

“No!”

Kuan’s cry of rage echoed to the horizons. Leaning over the rail, he peered at the water, as did I. Below us, the children thrashed in the waves. We turned on each other in mutual fury. I thrust the gun at his face. An instant passed during which he stared down the barrel and I felt my anger towards him break his hold on me. I pulled the trigger.

Instead of a deafening boom, there came a harmless click. But even as Kuan laughed in derision, I dropped the gun, clambered up on the rail, and threw myself overboard. I heard him curse, felt him grab my skirt. It tore. I plummeted, screaming and waving my arms in a vain, instinctive attempt to fly. The ocean heaved up to claim me. I hit the water with a smack that knocked me breathless. Far into the freezing black depths I plunged.

My experience at swimming consisted of one occasion, on a trip to the shore with Ellen. We’d hired a bathing machine-a horse-drawn carriage in which we donned our bathing dresses and rode into the sea. We’d paddled about in the shallows, careful not to wet our hair. Now a cry of terror burbled from me. I flailed in blind panic until I surged to the surface. My head broke through to blessed air. I gulped a breath, but waves washed over me; I swallowed briny sea, choked, and spat. More waves tossed me. I treaded water, hampered by the clothing that billowed around me. Somehow my spectacles had stayed on my face, and I peered, through lenses streaming with water, in desperate search for the children.

At first I saw nothing but empty ocean, and my heart almost died. Then I spotted two heads, bobbing close together nearby. I paddled towards them. Vicky and Bertie gasped and sobbed, tiny flotsam on the swells.

“Hold onto me,” I said.

They obeyed, and I began to swim, albeit incompetently, towards the navy ship. But their weight held me back, as did the crashing waves. The ship seemed as far away as the moon. I glanced back at Kuan’s vessel and saw, to my horror, a boat that contained four Chinese crewmen rowing towards us. I kicked and paddled frantically. As my strength waned, Kuan’s crew sped closer, and I feared we would perish, I saw another boat coming from the direction of the navy ship.

“Miss Bronte!” Mr. Slade shouted from the bow where he sat in front of two officers armed with rifles while two others manned the oars.

Such relief filled me as his boat neared me and Mr. Slade leaned over the side, extending his hand. I heard Kuan shout, “Stop them!”

Gunshots rang. Bullets pelted the water around us. While Mr. Slade lifted Vicky, his officers returned fire. One dropped his rifle and slumped lifeless. Mr. Slade hauled Vicky into the boat, but as he reached for Bertie, he faltered. He clutched his right arm; pain contorted his face: He’d been shot. He grabbed Bertie with his left hand. Kuan’s rowboat closed in on us. One of Mr. Slade’s oarsmen collapsed dead. I pushed Bertie upward. My strength, combined with Mr. Slade’s, propelled Bertie into the boat. I clung to its side, straining to climb in. Mr. Slade grasped my collar; his injured arm dangled, bleeding. The boat dipped low under my weight. The surviving oarsman rose to help Mr. Slade, but the gunfire tumbled him overboard. I scrambled into the boat, streaming water, moaning in gratitude.

But now Kuan’s rowboat was upon us. Its crew seized hold of our boat. We rocked and pitched in tandem while the Chinamen reached for the children. Vicky and Bertie squealed. Mr. Slade punched one man in the jaw, another in the stomach, and sent both falling into the sea. They tried to climb into our boat. I snatched up an oar and beat them. One of their comrades aimed a rifle at Mr. Slade. The other seized Bertie. The boy screamed, bit, and kicked. I swung my oar and struck the rifle a hard blow that knocked it sideways. It fired, missing Mr. Slade. Kuan’s man lost his balance and splashed into the ocean. Mr. Slade lurched towards the Chinaman who was tussling with Bertie and kicked him in the ribs. The man howled, loosing his grasp on Bertie. I hit him with the oar, and Mr. Slade shoved him overboard. Mr. Slade sat down and grabbed the other oar.

“Row!” he commanded me.

I obeyed, clumsily because I’d never rowed a boat before. Mr. Slade winced in pain as he wielded his oar. We rolled and buffeted over the waves towards the navy ship.

“Do not let them get away alive!” Kuan shouted. Muzzles spewed bursts of light and a din of shots at us. Bullets hit our boat and cannonballs splashed into the water around us.

“Lie down!” Mr. Slade shouted to Vicky and Bertie.

They flattened their shivering bodies on the boat’s floor. The navy ship loomed huge above us. Officers flung down a rope ladder. I urged Bertie and Vicky up the ladder and followed while shots thudded the ship’s hull. The officers hauled us aboard, then Mr. Slade. The ship blasted Kuan’s with round after round of rifle and cannon fire. Navy men hurried the children into the shelter of the cabin. Exhausted, wet, and shivering on the cold deck, I wept for the joy of salvation. Mr. Slade caught me in a fierce, warm embrace as we watched Kuan’s ship come steaming across the water towards us.