China Ocean
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“Sir!” The lookout’s cry was sharp, and the helmsman jerked his hand from the tiller. “The French are coming back.”
Cromwell had been sitting in the bows of the ship, his feet on a box that served as an improvised table for his maps and charts. He stood up to look over the side at the distant sail, which seemed almost invisible against the horizon. Then he squinted into the sun, trying to make out any detail in its reflection off the water.
He felt a stab of annoyance with himself; there must be something he could do. It wasn’t enough merely to sit here and wait until the French returned—he would have done so when he’d first set eyes on their vessel.
They were bound for China, just like him, but they were far more likely than Cromwell to reach it, if only because they had a crew. And now, after all this time spent planning and plotting and sailing, the French might actually succeed where he had failed.
As he turned away from the rail, the breeze caught his sleeve, and he looked down to see his own arm, still glistening wetly from washing. He was no longer young, and it didn’t take much effort to make himself look unkempt.
But then he saw what else was dripping down onto his shirt: blood. His left wrist hurt worse than usual, and he reached up to touch the bandage around it. A piece of splintered wood had nicked the skin below the cut, and he felt the familiar sting of dried blood.
There was no need to worry about the wound itself, though—the surgeon had already stitched it together, and he had wrapped it tight. For now, anyway.
Cromwell had made sure to keep the splinter close by before the mast broke, hoping he wouldn’t need to use it again. He took a deep breath and clenched his fist. Now, at last, was the moment to put the plan into action.
But he hesitated. He hadn’t counted on the pain in his wrist distracting him so completely. Perhaps, he thought, I should let the French take me, prisoner? That way I can learn everything they know. Then maybe I’ll have a chance of finding my father.
His heart beat faster. If only he knew how to find the Portuguese ship, or even where in the world to search! How many years had he wasted looking for the man who had abandoned him? More years than he cared to count. All those nights dreaming of being reunited, and he had never found his father. Instead, he had grown old alone.
And then, finally, the answer came to him.
I am not alone anymore, Father. Not really. You’re here with me. We’ve always been together, you and I. Just like you used to tell me, we are one soul in two bodies.
That is why I will win, whether it takes a day or ten years.
A smile spread across his face. He reached inside his coat and pulled out his knife. He pressed his thumb against the blade, making sure the metal was warm enough.
“Bring us about,” he said quietly. “Let them come aboard.”
It was nearly noon when the Frenchman arrived. Captain de Sartine had hoped for better weather, but he couldn’t complain too loudly—a strong wind was blowing directly toward the Chinese coast, and he needed every inch of speed he could muster.
So far, the journey had been going well. With their sails unfurled, he could manage fifteen knots through the water, and the winds held steady. As long as the wind remained constant, the French captain had calculated that he could easily reach Shanghai within three weeks’ time.
Now, however, he had company. De Sartine peered ahead at the sails of the approaching British frigate, but he didn’t recognize her from previous voyages. She was small compared to some of the other ships he’d seen in port, although she had the sleek lines of a good sea-faring craft.
He wondered if she belonged to the same fleet that had captured his own ship during the battle off Cape Corrente.
De Sartine’s thoughts were interrupted when the lookout called out, “There she is, sir! Coming straight for us!”
The captain hurried forward and glanced back at his first lieutenant. “What does she carry?” he asked.
“No name visible, sir,” the first officer replied, “but she carries a full cargo of gunpowder. The barrels are painted black to disguise them.”
De Sartine nodded. He’d heard rumors of such a shipment heading westward from Europe, but he hadn’t believed it possible. No European government wanted war with China, not yet. And yet here was proof, coming right into his hands. At least, that’s what he told himself.
In reality, the news terrified him. This meant there would be more ships arriving soon, and he knew the British would send warships after him. They would probably try to seize his prize as quickly as they could.
He turned to his second lieutenant, who stood next to him. “Are we ready?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” the younger man responded. “All the powder has been secured in the hold, and the crew has been armed and readied.”
“Very good. Get below decks. Tell the men to remain alert, and make certain everyone understands our orders: no matter what happens, do nothing without my permission!”
As the young sailor headed down the ladder, de Sartine watched him go, then returned to his cabin. Once the door closed behind him, he leaned back against its wood frame. He wasn’t worried about the men on board; he trusted them entirely.
What bothered him most was that he couldn’t tell the French Navy. It might cause an international incident. After all, the ship carried enough explosives to destroy half the city of Paris.
He sat down at his desk and began studying the charts he kept stored away in the bottom drawer. These maps showed the course he intended to sail once he left Hong Kong. He looked up and stared at the map of Southeast Asia, trying to imagine exactly where his ship would be when the Englishman arrived.
Would he still be near the strait between Hong Kong and Macao? Or perhaps farther south?
De Sartine tried to remember everything he could recall about the last time he’d sailed this route. He recalled passing by the island chain that contained Penang. Could it have moved closer to the mainland over the past decade?
He thought it unlikely, but he decided to take a look at the chart anyway. Then, using a ruler to measure the distance from one point on the map to another, he noted the difference in latitude.
Suddenly, his eyes widened. If the islands had indeed shifted, that would explain how the British ship had found him so easily.
His heart pounding, he took several deep breaths before moving to the map table and opening a drawer. Inside was a book of nautical almanacs, each page carefully folded and labeled. He searched until he located the appropriate volume and opened it.
There, written neatly in pen, he saw the answer to his question. A new island had appeared just south of Penang Island. Its location made perfect sense. It had drifted north over the years. Now, thanks to a shift in ocean currents, it had become part of the archipelago.
De Sartine smiled grimly. That explained it. When the English frigate came looking for him, she wouldn’t find him. But even if she did, there was nothing she could do. He checked his watch. It was almost time. He ran his fingers through his hair nervously and went to fetch his hat.
***
By the end of September, Captain William Murchison had completed two months’ training aboard HMS Phoenix, and he felt much more comfortable with the way things worked. The ship was a fast sailer, and its captain, George Nares, was known for his bravery. As long as you obeyed his rules—which, frankly, weren’t very strict—you could get along quite well.
Murchison’s first impression of the commander was correct. He seemed like a decent fellow, but also a bit pompous. For example, whenever someone made a mistake, he was quick to scold. One day, as the ship was sailing close inshore, Murchison was surprised to see the captain climb onto the forecastle.
“Mr. Murchison,” he said, staring sternly across the rail, “are you paying attention?”
“Sir, yes, sir,” the midshipman responded, instantly on guard.
“I’m disappointed to hear that. I’ve warned you before about your conduct. You must show respect to officers, regardless of their rank or position. This is something I expect to see improve.”
The captain paused for a moment. Then he continued, “But since you seem to want to learn, Mr. Murchison, I’ll give you another chance. I won’t report you today.”
With that, he climbed back into the crow’s nest, leaving Murchison feeling confused. Wasn’t being disrespectful to the captain supposed to be bad news?
On another occasion, while they were underway, Murchison spotted a large cargo vessel approaching from the opposite direction. Suddenly, the captain called out, “Mr. Murchison! Stand by to hoist the signal flags!”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
Murchison quickly grabbed the signal flag pole from its place in the forepeak. He raised it high above the mainmast and unfurled the red pennant that bore the word “HOTEL.” The other boatswain’s mates immediately followed suit, waving their own flags in response. They’d seen the same signal many times during their training, so they knew what to do.
When the ship passed by the other ship, Murchison watched closely. Afterward, he asked the boatswain’s mate why they used such an odd signal.
“Because we’re going to the hot springs,” the man replied.
“Hot springs?” Murchison repeated, not sure he understood.
“That’s right, Mr. Murchison,” the man said with a smile. “We’re headed to Batavia to bathe in the mineral springs.”
As far as Murchison was concerned, the boatswain was joking. But the other men all laughed. Even the captain joined them, though he didn’t share his own thoughts on the matter.
After another few days at sea, the ship reached the island of Java, where they stopped briefly to resupply. During this brief stay, the captain allowed Murchison and some of the other midshipmen to go ashore. On the outskirts of town, they saw a large group of soldiers gathered around a large bonfire. Curious, Murchison and his companions approached to get a better look.
What they discovered was a group of Dutch marines celebrating one of their comrades’ promotion. In front of the bonfire, a small boy stood holding a white-hot brand. A soldier held a wooden board in front of the child, which he used to burn the edges of the brand.
With each pass, the boy would move the board forward, exposing a fresh section of glowing coals. Each time he did, the soldiers cheered.
Eventually, the boy finished burning the entire brand. Then he handed it off to a waiting soldier. The soldier took the hot stick, dipped it into the flames, and placed it in the center of a pile of wood. Immediately, the wood burst into flame, shooting up toward the sky.
At this point, everyone cheered again. Soon after, the soldiers began chanting, “Rambo! Rambo! Rambo!”
Finally, the ceremony concluded. The soldiers marched away, singing their new comrade’s praises.
It wasn’t until later when Murchison learned how dangerous the ritual really was, that he realized what he witnessed.
He’d never seen anything like it. The young sailor couldn’t help but think of his father, who had been killed in action just a year earlier. It was only natural then to wonder if there might have been another way for the marines to honor their fallen friend—one less likely to result in injury or death.
In addition to the military ceremonies, the Dutch colony of Java offered opportunities for recreation. One popular pastime was a game known as jakiepok. In this sport, two teams of five players faced one another on a field marked out in chalk.
At the whistle, each team tried to kick the ball over the goal line, which was a series of stakes driven into the ground. If the opposing team knocked down one of the stakes, the player on duty at the moment could use it as a weapon against their opponents.
The game was simple enough to play, yet incredibly difficult to win. That’s because the field was wide open and the stakes were often spaced farther apart than usual, making it easy for players to miss. To make matters worse, the ball itself was hard to control, especially considering the windy conditions common in the tropics.
While playing jakiepok, Murchison noticed several sailors watching him intently. He soon found out that these sailors belonged to the crew of a merchantman called the Sea Sprite. The ship carried passengers along with cargo, much like the Royal Navy ships that Murchison served aboard.
But unlike those British vessels, the Sea Sprite had a distinctive feature: a large figurehead carved from black walnut wood.
The figurehead looked something like a cross between a mermaid and a human woman. She wore a flowing white dress and a crown adorned with jewels. Her face was beautiful and serene; she stared directly ahead without blinking. And her eyes glowed bright green.
Many years ago, when Murchison was just eight years old, he had come across an image of the mythical creature known as the Nereid. He remembered being terrified of the creature’s haunting green glow—and even more so of the story behind its origin. According to legend, the Nereid lived in the deep waters off the coast of Scotland, where it lured unsuspecting sailors to their deaths.
Murchison recalled being particularly frightened by the Nereid’s strange appearance and unblinking stare. Now he wondered if this was the same mysterious spirit that haunted the Sea Sprite. Or perhaps the figurehead was simply a representation of the ship’s namesake. Either way, it seemed clear to Murchison that the figurehead had some kind of mystical power.
On the night before they sailed for home, Murchison decided to find out. He climbed onto the bow of the Sea Sprite while the ship was anchored near shore. From here, he watched as the sun set over the water. As twilight faded, Murchison turned back to the ship.
When he did, he saw a green light shimmering at the prow of the Sea Sprite. He assumed it must be a trick of the setting sun, since no such glow appeared on any of the other ships in the harbor. Yet somehow, this mysterious phenomenon remained constant throughout the evening.
When darkness fell, Murchison went below decks and slept through the rest of the voyage. But once he woke, he asked the captain about the glowing object.
“That?” Captain Gildersleeve said. “That’s just my daughter.”
A few days later, the Sea Sprite made landfall at the port city of Surabaya. There, Murchison boarded the packet ship that would take him home to England. On board, he found himself surrounded by familiar faces—including the crewmen from the Sea Sprite.
After exchanging pleasantries, the group sat down around a table in the mess hall. Then, someone suggested they pass the time by telling ghost stories. A few minutes later, the first tale came to life right before Murchison’s eyes.
The man sitting next to him spoke up. “I heard that the figurehead on your ship has supernatural powers,” he said.
Murchison glanced toward the figurehead. Sure enough, the green light flickered. He didn’t know why the light shone so brightly on the Sea Sprite, but he suspected there was a reason. Perhaps the figurehead had been enchanted by a witch or a wizard who wanted to curse his enemies. Maybe the glowing green light signified the presence of the Nereid.
Whatever the case may have been, the sight unnerved Murchison. So much so, in fact, that he couldn’t stop thinking about it. For weeks after his return to England, he dreamed about the glowing green figurehead. Each dream ended the same way: With Murchison woke up in terror, clutching the pewter figurine given to him by Sir Francis.
It wasn’t until months later that Murchison learned what had really happened to the Sea Sprite. In late 1785, a fierce storm swept into the region. It left the Sea Sprite drifting helplessly on the waves. Unable to maneuver, the crew tried hailing passing ships for help. They soon realized, however, that no one could hear them. Then, all at once, the Sea Sprite vanished.
The End