“Uncle,” he says, “I will look for him. But if he does not want to go, you must honor his wishes.”
The sound of Bo’s voice seems to startle Fong, and his head snaps up. His eyes, more grey than brown, squint, as if not trusting his ears.
“Tao.” Fong’s voice cracks. “Tao is like a brother.”
“Yes. And brothers honor brothers.”
In the soft clinking of the chandeliers, and the groans of the ship as she labors, a glimmer of hope works its way down the tidal-wave staircase to the Chinese huddled at her feet.
At last, Fong extends a hand, a hand that trembles as if offering it is the hardest thing he’s ever done. Bo catches it in his solid grasp, and firmly pulls the man to his feet.
Fong’s bad foot hangs like a bag of sand from his ankle, and he can’t stand up all the way. Bo squats in front of the old pickpocket and, in one quick motion, hauls him up, so that the man is draped across his shoulders like a fox stole.
“Let’s go, Stowaway.”
Watching the cliffs of Dover take the stairs two at a time, I admit that, for once, I envy Fong just a tad.
37
At the top of the stairs, Bo puts Fong back on his pins, then squares his cap.
Jamie and Bo grasp arms. “Good luck finding Tao.”
“Stay salty.”
Their voices are hale, but the two hold their solemn shake longer than usual.
Then Bo’s eyes float to mine, which suddenly feel hot and in danger of melting. I throw my arms around the fisherman, squeezing him tight, as if trying to leave a permanent impression. I loosen my grip, and he gazes down at me, like a sailor taking his last look at land.
“It is not the end of us, Stowaway. Not if I can help it.”
I lift my face to Bo’s, and he kisses me with a fierceness that speaks of survival and wishes for a future. A sliver of a smile appears on his face and sears itself into my heart.
Taking the wooden whale from my pocket, I press it to his fingers. “Return it to me.”
“I will.”
Then he’s gone, like the last notes of a song that ends too soon.
Jamie herds the Johnnies to the door, and we step into thenight. The population on the Boat Deck has tripled, and so has the hysteria, some expressed in loud voices, some in silent tears.
A loud hiss precedes a streak of light that bursts into a shower of sparkles, momentarily shutting off the stars. People gasp and cry out. A child points. A man holds his praying hands to the sky.
Olly twists up his neck. “What was that?”
“Emergency flare,” says Jamie, pulling him toward the closest lifeboat, the newlywed boat. “They’re signaling our distress. Come on, lads.”
I shiver inside my coat. I can’t help thinking that the flare is a last cry of desperation. We’re the only ones out here. Unless heaven holds out a hand for us to climb into, half the people here will perish. Then again, maybe the flare is agoodsign. Surely the crew has used their wireless. Perhaps help has arrived, and the flare simply pinpoints our location.
As if to reassure me, music begins to play from somewhere. I recognize the swingy, plucking rhythm of ragtime. People smile. Maybe the situation is not so grave after all.
In the newlywed boat, about thirty people have already boarded, mostly women but also a few men.
An officer raises his hands at the crowd. “Hold! No more passengers.”
Jamie scrambles over to him. “Can you take us, mate? We’ve got a woman, two children, and an injured man.”
I frown at Jamie, sick at the thought of leaving him behind. But Wink and Olly squeeze in closer to me, and I know they need me more.
