The Mark of the Golden Dragon (36 page)

"I have determined that hanging would not suit my constitution, Sir, so I have tried to avoid it."

A short bark of a laugh at that.

"Yes, rather ... But from what I have read of your behavior, it seems you have not gone out of your way to avoid that particular fate." He looks me up and down. "Still, it would be a pity to see that dangle..."

I put on a modified version of the big eyes, looking helpless in the presence of the big, strong man.

"Ahem. Well, we'll have to see about you later," he stammers. "Now, Mr. Chen, I hear you bring us great riches."

"Ah, yes, Honorable One," says Charlie, grinning and opening up his charts and laying them out. "And I bring you much more than mere trinkets. You see, here is the layout of the fortifications of Rangoon ... and here, the principal ethnic peoples' areas of influence ... and the plan of Singapore harbor..."

Mr. Peel's eyes gleam, and he and Lord Mulgrave lean over the maps.

I take this opportunity to excuse myself, but nobody seems to notice.

As I leave, I hear Charlie say, "I believe I could be of very much use to the Crown. And yes, I should like to meet the King..."

Ha! Good old Chops! You tell 'em!

My mind once again comes back to the greensward of Lincoln's Inn Fields. I reach down and pull a tendril of light brown hair from Richard's face. It had worked its way out of the tie that holds the mass of his thick hair back upon his neck.

"Don't you dare fall asleep on me, Richard," I say sternly.

"How could I possibly do that," he murmurs sleepily, "when my poor unworthy head rests in such a holy hollow?"

"Stuff and nonsense," I say. "I shall recite to you a poem, so you will remember this day. Ahem..."

A book of verses 'neath the bough,
A loaf of bread, and thou,
Beside me singing in the wilderness,
Ah, wilderness, thou art Paradise enow!

"How did you like that, milord?" I chirp. "You get to be the 'thou' in that one. First 'thou,' anyway."

"I like it very much, Princess. Did you learn that from your new poetical friends—Lord Byron and that bunch?"

"Nay, Sidrah taught it to me, back in Rangoon. It's by a man they called Omar the Tentmaker, a Persian, written a long time ago. Rather nice, don't you think?"

"Yes, and so is the lovely Sidrah. I squired her about a bit this morning ... showed her the sights and all."

"I'll bet you did," I say, giving him a poke in the ribs.

He laughs. "A bit jealous, Jacky, I hope?"

"Not a bit, you rascal, as I have no claim on thee ... or thou ... as I am promised to another."

That gets another chuckle from the very pretty Lord Allen. "And you are as loyal as the sky is blue."

Another poke and I look over and see that Ravi is not having much success in flying his kite. The breeze, though pleasant, is just too strong. As he runs along holding his string, his kite dips and dives in crazy arcs before crashing into the ground.

The other kids on the green are not having any more luck at kite flying than Ravi, and I know how to fix that, but...

Uh-oh...

I hear the words
wog
and
nigra
being tossed around. The words are coming not from the children, but rather from some of the adults scattered about the green. And it ain't hard to figure just who they're talkin' about. Ravi hears and gathers up his fallen kite and walks away from the other kids, disconsolate, his joy gone. I know the word
untouchable
is going through his mind. Holding his kite at his side, he comes back to our little encampment.

Grrr...

"Here, Ravi," I say. "What you need is a tail. Richard, up with you." Lord Allen groans and sits up.

When my legs are freed, I flip up my dress a bit, exposing one of my petticoats. Then I whip out my shiv from my forearm sheath and make a cut in the bottom hem. That accomplished, I rip off a good three inches of it, maybe six feet long. Hey, I've got lots of petticoats—got three on right now, in fact.

"Here, Ravi. Give me your kite."

He holds it out to me and I tie the strip of cloth to the bottom point of it and hand it back to Ravi.

"There. Now try that."

He runs off, trailing the newly tailed kite. It, of course, rises smoothly into the air, to the wonder of all.

"Very nice, Princess," says Allen. "I had no idea you were so expert in the science of aerodynamics."

"We used to fly kites every March in Boston, when I was at the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls. It was a very merry time, winter coming to a close after all, and, with the wind off Massachusetts Bay, well, it necessitated tails."

Ravi whoops with joy and comes back to our blanket.

"Look, Memsahib, it is flying!"

"Indeed it is, lad," I say, reaching out. "Come, hand me the string and I'll show you some tricks."

He does, and I say, "See, if you pull it this way, it will make the kite swoop down ... That way and the kite swoops in the other direction. See? Now watch that bloke over there..."

I let the line go slack and the kite comes floating down ... down ... down ... and when it almost reaches the ground, I pull it up sharply and it takes the wind and buzzes by the head of one of those men who called Ravi those things. I almost succeed in taking his hat off and he must duck to avoid our vengeful kite.

Take that, you mean bastard...

"Well done, Princess," says Richard, beaming. "You truly are a piece of work. Even kite flying falls within your expertise."

"Yes, well, one time I even went up into the air myself, riding a big kite. It almost killed me."

"Yes, Jacky, I know ... I can read, you know, simple soldier though I am."

"So you've read those books?" I ask, working up a maidenly blush. It's getting harder and harder for me to do that.

"Oh, yes, and enjoyed them hugely."

"Even the naughty bits?"

"
Especially
the naughty bits," says the rogue, grinning, his teeth gleaming white in the sunlight of the day. "I think I came out rather well in the Mississippi thing."

"Umm ... Well, Amy Trevelyne tends to exaggerate a bit."

Hmmm
...I notice that one of the little boys who was having trouble flying his kite has come up next to Ravi.

Uh-oh ... Trouble...?

But no. The boy merely says, "My name's Tom. Can you show us how to do that?"

Ravi, warily, says, "Yes, Tom, for certain."

"Good. Then, what's your name?" The lad seems to be a pleasant sort, for a boy.

"Ravi."

"Just Ravi? No last name?"

"No, I-I am Untouch—"

"His last name is Faber," I finish for him, loud and firm. "Ravi Faber."

I reach up under my dress and pull off the petticoat I had previously torn and toss it to Ravi, whose luminous dark eyes are brimming now, not with shame but with pride. Then I reach in my sleeve and flip him my shiv, which he expertly catches on the fly.

"There ... my son ... Cut tails for everyone's kite so that we might all decorate God's blue sky on this beautiful day."

Soon all the kites of Lincoln's Inn Fields are aloft and flying.

"My turn now, Richard. Up you go now, lad," I say, sitting him up and squirming around to plop my head into his lap. By turning my face, I can look out over the river. Boats on the Thames—mostly commercial coal barges—work their slow way up and down the river and suchlike, but there are some that are out for the mere pleasure of sailing a small boat on a glorious day.

"Does the offer of a ladyship still go?" I tease.

He leans down and plants one on my forehead.

"Yes, Princess, it does."

"Right, Lord Allen. You'd be tossed out of the House of Lords on your wellborn ear if you married something like me."

"I would not care. They're just a bunch of puffed-up old coots, anyway. I can barely stay awake when the House is in session. Which is why I'm a soldier and not a politician."

"Being a politico is a lot safer than being a soldier, Richard. I'd hate to see you hurt."

"Ah, well, nothing much happening now, so don't worry," he says. "No, at the moment, it's all parades and fine uniforms and impressing the ladies."

"Yes, but I hear Lord Wellesley is taking on Napoleon down in Portugal. You could be sent there."

"True, but it ain't happened yet, so not to worry."

"Right." I sigh. "Live in the moment, I always say, and the moment right now is truly fine."

"Indeed, Princess, an excellent motto, and one to which I fully subscribe." He makes so bold as to lean down and place a light kiss upon my lips. I should protest, but I do not really mind.

"Lady Allen, Jacky Faber, herself," I say, laughing. "Look down there, Richard. Do you see that muddy patch of open shore next to Blackfriars Bridge? You do? Good. It is mostly gravelly mud, but still a beach ... sort of ... Well, anyway, when she was a kid, the grand Lady Allen used to swim there in summers with the other street kids. It was neutral territory between the gangs, like."

"Ah yes, the youth of London, frolicking in bucolic splendor."

"Well, no, it wasn't quite like that, milord, no—a bit more squalid. For one thing, the water was dirty and muddy, with things floatin' in it."

I sink back into remembrance.

"Shall I tell you a tale of Cheapside you ain't yet read in any of those books?"

"Please do, Princess."

"All right," I say, and I begin...

"We had back then what we called 'chicken fights'—they were gladiatorial contests, actually. How to explain? Well, here's how Rooster Charlie, our gang leader, used to describe the game. 'Y'see, gents, we 'ave the Bulls and the Chicks. The Chicks, bein' the girls, ride the shoulders of the Bulls—the big lads, like—into the water, about waist deep, and the object of the contest is to topple the opposin' team. The rules, as they was developed over the centuries, Sirs, was this: The Bull cannot hold the Chick onto his shoulders—the Chick has to do that by clamping her legs about the Bull's neck as hard as she can and holding on to his hair. The Chicks can do whatever they want to the other Chicks—bite, scratch, pull hair—and the Bulls can wrassle with each other but can't touch the Chicks. The battle is won when one team's Chick topples off into the water, or mud, which is more likely to be the case. Oh, sirs, you ought to see it, when four or more teams stride into the water, ready to engage, well, it's a Battle Royale, I can tell you. Tomorrow, twelve noon, when Big Ben strikes, you'll be in for a treat! The mud and water shall fly!'"

I have to chuckle when I think back to Rooster Charlie explainin' the game to the local sportin' toffs—he did have a way with words, our Charlie did, I recall fondly.

"'What's the scam, Charlie?' asked the leaders of the other gangs when we all gathered under a flag of truce.

"'The scam is this,' says Charlie. 'The toffs bet on the fights, I collects the bets and takes ten percent off the top and divides it up later twixt the gangs. Got it? Hey, it's better than beggin', and it's legal and ain't about to get you hanged, neither. Now, every gang should put t'gether at least two teams ... and yes, there'll be prizes for winners, too. Got it? Tomorrow noon.'"

"And you, of course, were a Chick," interrupts Lord Allen.

"Yes, of course," I reply. "Me and Hughie made quite a team, too." Hugh the Grand we called him—the biggest, strongest, bravest, and sweetest member of our gang. He was simple, but he was good, and some of the happiest times I've ever had in my life was in riding his broad shoulders, whether to be high enough to read the broadsides on Fleet Street or riding into gang battles on the rough streets or in the Chicken Fights on the Thames. We used to have Hughie fight the prizefighters what would come into Cheapside with the autumn fairs, takin' on all comers, but I hated to see him hurt, even though he won most times, to our benefit. But still, wiping the blood from his face afterward ... I just didn't like it. I liked the chicken fights a lot better. At least it wasn't Hughie what got pounded.

"Anyway, the next noon we had maybe twenty spectators at the foot of Blackfriars Bridge, and we got down to it. Charlie got up first to announce the matches.

"'Step right up, gents, and place your bets! We have five fine teams here for the first bout—the Royal Cavaliers, the Rounders, the Lords, the Shankies, and, of course, my very own Blackfriars Bridge Crew. You can be sure we don't throw no fights like them pugilists sometimes do, no sir. Nay, we're honest to the core. And throw a fight to a Shanky? Why, Guv'nor, we'd rather die, we would. Step right up, gents, and place your bets. Hurry up, now, the first match is about to begin ... Go!'

"With the Bulls bellowing, we waded into the first bout and my good Bull and I went for Toby Oyster's team first, as they seemed the weakest. 'Over there, Hughie, hit 'em hard!' and he did. The girl Toby had up was game, but she didn't last long. I got her by the hair and twisted her about so's I could get my arm around her neck and squeeze till she made gargling noises and dropped off into the water without further protest, and Hughie and I swung around to confront the next challenge ... It was from the Shankies, but they didn't field their best team, I knew, 'cause Pigger O'Toole wasn't the Bull. Not yet, he wasn't...