The Faith and Salt

The heavy iron links clinked and rattled with every step.

David and the rest of the crew, including the captain and the common sailors, were shackled together by their ankles, their necks locked into heavy wooden cangues.

In this humiliating fashion, they were paraded through the granite-paved streets flanking the Thirteen Factories, dragged along like a catch of fish.

The commanding officer rode a sturdy native stallion adorned with bright crimson tassels and chiming brass bells, leading his captives.

Along the crowded thoroughfare, residents lined the shopfronts, watching them with open disdain.

To the eyes of this bustling city, the Englishmen were the most disgusting, uncivilized spectacle the population had ever witnessed.

David remained in a state of profound shock, his mind utterly refusing to process what he had just seen.

The other sailors marched in a hollow silence, their vacant expressions suggesting they were trapped in the same disbelief.

"Yer London Society didn’t mention the bloody monsters, eh, parson?" Archie was shackled directly behind David, his presence as irritating as ever.

David didn't look back. He kept his eyes on the dirt.

Archie grunted, taking his silence as an invitation to keep talking. "I still canna believe me own eyes.

The river barely reached the beast’s knees... God's teeth..."

"Yes, yes, I saw it," David’s voice tight with exhaustion. “And unfortunately, we were on the SAME damn ship. Now shut your mouth and let me suffer in peace, please.”

"Fair enough, parson," Archie whispered back, adjusting the heavy wood around his neck. "But I'm just sorry we never got the chance to show these Chinese what a real British gentleman looks like."

As they shuffled along the street, a local Chinese man, dressed in native robes but wearing the distinctive white collar of a Christian catechist, watched them pass with deep shock in his eyes.

The sight caught David by surprise.

Back in London, he had read about Sir John Robert Morrison's exploits, about reforming emperors and signed treaties.

He had believed every word.

The Emperor was reforming, welcoming Westerners, even signing treaties.

Yet, everything that had unfolded today completely contradicted the optimistic reports he had devoured in the safety of London.

Confusion gnawed at him as he wondered whether these people were genuinely embracing the West or if they still viewed foreigners as barbaric foes to be crushed.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

The giant entity on the river delta, however, occupied his thoughts most of all.

He had heard Euro-Asian route sailors’ tales of sea monsters before, drunken stories he had never believed. Until today.

He could never have conceived that the imperial army was actively taming these aberrations, let alone that he would face one himself.

China... How stupid I was to believe this was my safe way out.

Before he could pursue the thought any further, he was already shoved into the dark belly of the prison.

It was now August. Back in London, gentlemen would be strolling through the chilly morning fog in wool trousers, heavy frock coats, and stiff top hats.

But here in this Far Eastern city, the locals went about in loose, short-sleeved tunics, and even then, the stifling heat was near-absolute.

The air was so thick and soup-like that it felt impossible to breathe.

Already starved of water on the ship, David felt the heat draining the last of his strength.

His tongue felt like sandpaper against the roof of his mouth.

I'm too thirsty... I need water.

When the guards finally unfastened the iron shackles from the prisoners' ankles, David immediately turned to the nearest imperial jailer.

He pressed his palms together in a desperate, pleading gesture and mimed the action of drinking. "Please," he croaked. "Please."

The jailer stared at him. He understood the gesture well enough, but he clearly did not care.

"In a hole like this, parson, ye have to earn respect before ye earn water," Archie muttered from behind.

Or a good trick, David thought, a plan already forming in his mind. His hand slipped quietly into the secret pocket of his salt-crusted trousers.

Beneath his fingers, three silver shillings—stamped with the fading profile of the late King William IV and bearing a tiny, unique scratch near the rim that only he could recognize—clinked softly together.

"Strip! Everything off!” the head jailer barked. “Clothes, pants, all of it!”

Surprisingly, these are in English.

You bastards. David’s jaw tightened in sheer frustration. It couldn't be that much of a coincidence.

Annoyance became a tense necessity. Almost by instinct, his fingers tightened around the three silver shillings.

Instead of surrendering them, he slipped his hand to his mouth and shoved the coins flat against his tongue.

The filthy silver, coated in sea salt and old sweat, its bitter metallic tang making him gag.

The head jailer caught the frantic motion. He strode over to David, his eyes narrowing as he shouted something sharp and interrogative.

David did not know a single Chinese character, but the threat in the man's tone required no translation.

The officer stopped directly in front of him.

He wore a faded, sweat-stained robe of dark blue cotton, a massive cluster of iron keys clanking against his thigh, and he held a short, heavy bamboo rod in his right hand.

He tapped the wood against his palm, repeating the demand in a low, dangerous rumble.

David shook his head, shifting his weight back and putting his hands together in a desperate, silent plea for mercy.

From a few paces away, Archie frantically tried to catch his eye, his voice a harsh whisper. "Ye better give him that, parson. Don't be a bloody fool!"

The jailer stepped closer. He opened his own mouth wide, as if he thought David didn’t understand the command.

David shook his head a second time, keeping his jaws clamped shut. At this point, is there really any difference between dying of thirst and being beaten to half-death? He asked himself.

Archie's face went completely pale. "Ye stupid parson, ye're gonna get us all killed!"

The jailer's expression instantly turned cold.

He let out a sharp, guttural roar to his men, turned on his heel, and walked away toward the stone steps.

Seeing this, the other guards immediately halted their work, stepping back and standing at grim attention.

Deep in the line of prisoners, the captain’s composure broke entirely. He glared at David, his teeth bared in a furious snarl.

"You bloody fool!” the captain snarled. “You’re going to get us all killed!"

From somewhere outside the dark corridor, the heavy iron doors groaned and slammed shut.

We will soon find out, David thought, his heart hammering against his ribs as he stared at the damp stone floor.

But it can’t be good.