William Clark's mouth was gaping wide for a long time before he managed to close it, and even Edward Reed, who usually wore a poker face, looked utterly astonished—he nearly set off his musket by accident.

Only the bald-headed Monk Brooks shook his head in admiration, gazing at the young master with worshipful eyes. “Young master truly is a remarkable man; your foreign tongue is impressively fluent.” Scholar Bennett, who knew a bit of the foreign language, stroked the sparse mouse whiskers at his lip and sighed in agreement.

“I—I am the captain of the Conton, Sir George Comely. How can you treat a nobleman like this?” The Englishman hanging from the cabin wall cried out hoarsely, looking toward Henry Clark. Seeing the man’s sorry state, Henry Clark almost burst out laughing—both his eyes were black and blue, making him look like a Chinese national treasure.

“Oh? A British nobleman?” Henry Clark grinned. A British nobleman? He actually knew a few. Back in the day, he’d dealt with quite a few British business agents, and their tabloid instincts had led them to share all sorts of secret gossip about the British aristocracy. Many nobles acted all dignified and gentlemanly by day, but at night, they’d dress up like hellish fiends, do drugs, and mess around with each other’s behinds.

Imperial capitalism truly is a poison to humanity—socialism is so much better, Henry Clark thought with no small amount of malice.

……

“We really shouldn’t treat a nobleman this way. Baldy, let him down and give him some water.” Henry Clark’s gaze was full of pity, like a priest about to give last rites to a dying patient. The interpreter now stood beside Mr. Clark, translating the conversation between Henry Clark and the Englishman for William Clark, whose foreign language skills were lacking.

Soon, the captain—who had no strength left to resist and seemed to have two broken ribs—was tied to a chair by the bald man. After being forced to drink a bowl of water, he seemed to regain a bit of energy and nodded at Henry Clark with a bruised eye. “Sir, by doing this, does it mean you’re willing to accept our terms?” There was a hint of relief and joy in his voice.

But Henry Clark didn’t let him get his way. Shaking his head, Henry Clark sat down on a stool directly across from Captain George. “No, no, no, you misunderstood, dear Captain. I like honest people, but unfortunately, you haven’t told the truth, so there’s no way I can accept your terms.”

Captain George’s breath caught slightly, his eyes flickering. “I never imagined a Qing man could speak English so well. Sir, you’re the first.”

“Sorry, I don’t have much time. Don’t waste my words—tell me, what exactly is your purpose for staying in this area for three days?”

“Sir, as I said, we’re just a group of pirates.” Still tied to the chair, Captain George stubbornly insisted. Henry Clark laughed in exasperation. “Very well, dear Sir, do you know the old Chinese saying, ‘You won’t cry until you see the coffin’?” Henry Clark’s gaze was like a venomous snake flicking its red tongue, making George shiver involuntarily. “Sir, don’t you want money? Three thousand gold coins—that’s no small fortune.”

“I’ve heard that your Western operas are quite famous, and that some special singers have voices so high even female sopranos are put to shame, is that right?” The smile on Henry Clark’s face looked just like a wolf in grandmother’s clothing, tail peeking out.

“I think you must mean castrato singers. Amazing! I never thought you’d know about opera, sir!” Captain George, his face battered and sporting a pair of panda eyes, was genuinely surprised. He was happy to keep dragging out the conversation with Henry Clark, hoping to win the favor of this Chinese pirate who knew Western culture, and maybe save his own life.

“Heh, yes. I wonder if you gentlemen would be interested in forming a grand castrato opera troupe?” Henry Clark burst out laughing, his dark sense of humor finding an outlet.

When William Clark heard the interpreter, wiping cold sweat from his brow, stammer out the translation of their conversation, he couldn’t help but roar with laughter. Stroking his thick beard, he gave Henry Clark a thumbs-up. “Great idea! I’ve never seen a Western eunuch before.”

All the Englishmen turned deathly pale, looking as panicked as a flock of chickens about to be gutted.

“Devil! You can’t do this—we are soldiers of the British Empire!” Captain George shrieked as if someone had jabbed a musket into his backside.

“Oh…” Henry Clark deliberately drew out the sound. “You’re soldiers of the British Empire? Tsk tsk tsk, didn’t you just say you were pirates, Captain? How come you’re soldiers now? Dishonest people must be punished.”

Henry Clark turned his head and gave Monk Brooks a look. Monk Brooks grinned good-naturedly, strode into the crowd, dragged out an Englishman, and hauled him toward another cabin. The man struggled, cursed, even begged and cried, but Monk Brooks kept smiling, looking for all the world like a kindly father about to prepare a nice boiled chicken for his children.