02 Shanghai Dreams (The Earl’s Other Son #2)

by Andrew Wareham

  “I must take my soldiers back to their place of duty, my lord. Their valuable rifles have shown most useful there.”

  The reference to the Mausers was not lost on Magnus. He glanced about, saw that there were at least a dozen of Chinese soldiers of various ranks watching them; as Mr Ping bowed his farewell, Magnus carefully returned the compliment and dipped his head lower than Mr Ping’s. He listened with satisfaction to the indrawn breaths of the observers, all of whom recognised his expression of humble gratitude and deeply approved. The word would spread, and would redound to the credit of Mr Ping, but would also add some respect to Magnus’ name for being so honestly behaved, the gwailo lord who could actually express his thanks.

  Four destroyers joined the pair of ships amid much signalling between them and Barfleur. Magnus walked gravely back to his conning tower on Racoon and allowed himself to be seen at close range, ripping with highly theatrical blood, some of it his own. It would make a very good tale.

  His arm was starting to hurt. Magnus had been told by experienced men that wounds often went unnoticed in the heat of action, only showed themselves afterwards; he had not believed them, now realised that they were actually telling the truth.

  “What’s the butcher’s bill, Mr Mason?”

  “Big, sir. We have lost eight men that I know of so far and have at least thirty wounded.”

  “Signal Barfleur for her doctor, Mr Mason. Call for assistance from the destroyers’ SBAs as well.”

  Boats were launched and men came over the side at the run. Barfleur closed the pair of ships and idled to within a cable, glasses busy on the bridge.

  “What of prisoners, Mr Mason?”

  “Too few of them, sir. They had manned their deck guns and lost their crews to our shellfire. Interesting to note, sir, as a first impression, the shrapnel balls were effective against the men but did very little damage to the structure of the ship. I had expected to see the superstructure ripped to shreds, sir, but in fact the damage will be easily repaired. Even the shells that penetrated did little major harm. They really are of value only against men, sir.”

  “Worth remembering, Mr Mason. Numbers?”

  “Still counting, sir. We have forty men, rough figure, under guard and as many again wounded and in the cover of the messdeck. We have recorded seventy-two gone over the side. Assuming a crew of about two hundred, the Russians cramming conscripts aboard above their complement, then we are looking at fifty bodies unaccounted for. Say two dozen of officers and mids and loyal petty officers killed in the mutiny, then we still have more than a score missing. There is a boat gone from the davits, sir, and I am inclined to wonder if a party got ashore in Shanghai when Otvajni left at low speed. You never know, sir – the Russians might have killed more in the mutiny, or some may have gone over the side in the fight; we may well come across more in various parts of the ship, wounded or hiding away or dead.”

  “Possible, Mr Mason. Jot those figures down quickly for me, if you please. That’s another boat from Barfleur on its way, and I think I see Jellicoe in it.”

  Mason ran to the side and organised a party to give the correct honours to the Flag Captain. He would have been forgiven for failing in that duty; that he had performed correctly would be noted in his favour.

  Mason led Captain Jellicoe to the conning tower, explaining loudly that the captain was wounded and should not be encouraged to move too much.

  Magnus stood to his salute, Carter having produced his second best hat to replace the one lost in the fight.

  “Good God, my lord! How much of that blood is yours? Sit down, my dear sir, you must not stand for me!”

  Magnus accepted the stool that was thrust behind him, demurring that his wound was the most trivial hole in the flesh of his arm.

  “Thing is, sir, I lost my footing and went sprawling on top of a dead Russki who was bleeding all over the place. Damned Russians have no sense of proportion, you know, sir – no idea of dying considerately!”

  “I had not heard that, my lord. I shall take your word for it. How do you come to be in action with a Russian, my lord? We had word in Hong Kong that you had a mutinous squadron on your hands – is this one of them? What is she, by the way?”

  “Armoured gun vessel, sir, Otvajni. One big nine inch and a six incher and various smaller pieces including revolving one pounders, Hotchkiss guns, which are nasty at close range. Battleship Poltava and cruiser Admiral Nakhimov are both in the yards at Shanghai, unable to sail. The Russian admiral and the consul in Shanghai both requested Captain Erskine to assist them in bringing in their lost sheep and he ordered Racoon to take up the chase. Strict orders to take but not destroy Otvajni, sir.”

  “In mutiny… what happened to her officers?”

  “Dead, sir, shot and cut to pieces, at least one tortured to death.”

  “You were lucky to take her by boarding, my lord. A bad fight, I must imagine.”

  “It was, sir. They had barricaded the bridge and killed several of my men and I was about to withdraw from it and sink Otvajni for being unable to take her. Just at the crucial moment, a pair of lorchas under the command of Lord Ping of Hanshan boarded across the bows and swarmed the Russians from behind. Between us, we killed half and wounded many and took two score of prisoners, just as you came hull up, sir. It seems that Ping has been expanding his influence along the coast and had troops in the harbour just under our lee, sir. Damned embarrassing, the Navy to be rescued by the Chinks, but we are indebted to them, sir. I am, by honour, sir.”

  “I must confer with Admiral Seymour, and with the consuls, of course, and probably with the Legation in Peking before I can do anything… It seems that we will have to make a formal acknowledgement of their actions, Lord Eskdale.”

  “It is right that we should, sir. Damned awkward, though.”

  “Damned fortunate, too, my lord. We are very well placed because of your actions, you know, my lord. We return a Russian ship, together with taken mutineers and they must offer their thanks to our ambassador in St Petersburg. A diplomatic coup, that will be, and will do the Navy on the China Station a deal of good. For the while, a return to Shanghai, all in consort. Who is to bring Otvajni in?”

  “My first lieutenant, Mr Mason, is thoroughly deserving of that honour, sir.”

  “Then so be it. I shall remind Admiral Seymour of your name, Mr Mason.”

  Captain Jellicoe could not promote Mason, but his admiral must be guided by him to do so and quickly.

  “For the while, my lord, get to your cabin and clean up, sir. I shall send a man to you – one of Barfleur’s people, an attendant rather than the doctor himself, if you insist that your wound is minor.”

  “Too trivial to take a doctor out of the sick berths at the moment, sir.”

  “Very proper, my lord. Course for Shanghai and Racoon will lead the squadron in to its moorings.”

  That was an honour, a public statement of respect to the ship and its whole complement, exemplified, in the nature of things, by the captain.

  Carter had a hot bath ready, which was surprising, Racoon being still at action stations and no power available to heat water, by the rules. Captain’s stewards were expert at bending the regulations and had access to the odd bottle to be passed across to men who did them favours.

  “Ruined the uniform, sir. Absolutely! No possible way I can get the bloodstains out, sir.”

  “Tailors in a few days, Carter. What cannot be made good must be replaced. Don’t waste your efforts on the damned thing, Carter. Heave it over the side, man!”

  “Waste of good cloth, sir. You didn’t ought to go fighting Russians in good uniforms, sir.” There was a knock at the cabin door. “SBA from Barfleur here, sir, to look at your arm.”

  “Send him in.”

  Magnus wrapped himself in a towel and sat on his bunk while the attendant inspected the wound.

  “Beg pardon, sir, but I ain’t doing this one. Ripped and torn it to buggery, so you have, sir. Doctor for this one, sir. Bul
let went in one side and out the other. Missed the bone but clipped the muscle front and back, and I ain’t sure it’s all clean like it ought to be. I reckon that’s bits of shirt what I can see inside, and they got to be cleaned out, sir. Sick berth for you, sir, if so be you would be so good.”

  “I will come now.”

  Magnus sat stoically while the doctor fished inside the torn flesh and showed him fibres from his shirt, all dripping blood.

  “Killing stuff, cloth in a wound, my lord. I must clean the site now, my lord. Hold tight to the side of the cot now, you will not enjoy this, I fear.”

  “What, doctor?”

  “Carbolic solution, sir. It will kill every little germ it comes in contact with. It will only feel as if it is killing you as well. I shall follow it with a wash in saline solution, just to be double sure.”

  An hour later and Magnus’ head had stopped swimming and he could stand and walk back on deck.

  “Mr Harborough to my cabin.”

  Harborough was second, should have the ship in his hands with Mason gone across to Otvajni.

  “Report, Mr Harborough.”

  “Course for Shanghai, sir, leading the flotilla. Speed of eight knots, sir, Otvajni in tow of destroyer Mountjoy, sir. Signal from Mountjoy, sir, ‘Here we go again’.”

  “Mountjoy towed me into Hong Kong last year, Mr Harborough.”

  “Ah! That explains it. Butchers bill, sir. Now eleven of ours dead and twenty-two gravely wounded. Doctor has no immediate expectation of losing more, sir, but is sure that eight will be discharged the service as unfit, sir. Pension cases, sir.”

  Magnus knew the pension to be a very few shillings a week, insufficient to keep a family on. Harborough seemed to be satisfied that the men would experience the generosity of their nation.

  “Too many, Mr Harborough. Bloody Russians!”

  “Necessary, sir, to put the reds down. Can’t permit mutinies, sir, wherever they may be found. They spread, sir.”

  Rather like smallpox, Magnus presumed.

  “What are the final figures from Otvajni?”

  “Forty-two in irons, sir. Thirty-seven wounded. Known dead, sir, bodies thrown over the side by our people, that is, amount to eighty-one. One hundred and sixty in total, sir. That, sir, suggests thirty, at least, still unaccounted for. No Russian speakers to ask any questions, sir. Most of them should have been killed in the mutiny, probably, sir.”

  “Let the Russians solve that problem, Mr Harborough. Did we lose any officers?”

  “No, sir. Midshipman Grant-Hartley was wounded, sir, and will be some weeks off duty. Very lucky young man, sir, one of those rare wounds one hears about. He was shot, pistol bullet we imagine, very small calibre, something like a twenty-two – a pocket gun, probably taken from one of the officers, sir. Hit him in the side of the head, penetrated the flesh to the skull itself and then took the line of least resistance, circling around the head, under the scalp. Went in above the left ear and was removed by the doctor from just above the right, sir. A big, raised welt, sir, and an almighty headache, but nothing more.”

  “As you say, Mr Harborough, a remarkably lucky young man. I shall speak to the admiral, point out that he is due his commission. He deserves something for that.”

  Harborough agreed – the boy was born to be hanged, it would seem. Nothing else would take him off.

  “Very good, Mr Harborough. I propose to call myself unfit for duty until dawn. The ship is yours till then, emergency excepted.”

  “Thank you, sir. I would estimate docking in Shanghai at about eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  Bright sunlight – much more convenient than rain to drive the onlookers in – and Magnus standing upright on the conning tower, arm decorously composed in a laundered white sling, in command of his ship and leading the squadron in honour.

  “That will ensure the word is passed round the whole of Shanghai, Mr Harborough. I am breaking no confidences when I suggest that my senior lieutenants may all expect something over the next little while. Please pass the word that I am more than satisfied with my wardroom and lower deck, Mr Harborough. Captain Jellicoe knows my opinion, and shares it. I would not be surprised was Centurion to sail in within the week, sir.”

  Admiral Seymour would be aboard and able to hand out promotions, Harborough realised. He started to calculate what he might get, decided he was too junior to be made commander, but he could well become a lieutenant-in-command of a small sloop, which would do his career no end of good. Failing that, first lieutenant on a second or third rate cruiser would be a good step for a man of his age. There was a chance of a Mention, as well – and a decoration was always useful.

  It was a happy ship that tied up at the pontoon on the Bund, faces quickly losing their smiles and becoming properly grave as the ambulance wagons appeared and took on the dead and wounded of the action.

  Magnus stood at the brow at the salute as his men passed on stretchers, too many with a sheet pulled over their face. There would have to be a funeral, he realised, one of the appalling ceremonies so beloved of the powers-that-be. At the cathedral, no doubt, with all that implied.

  There were carriages pulling up on the Bund, Russian uniforms setting down, and some civilians. He peered surreptitiously, spotted Ellen and her father but could not acknowledge them. Captain Erskine was leading the Russian admiral and consul onto the pontoon and he had to give them all of his attention.

  “Beg to report, sir, that Otvajni has been taken and the mutiny suppressed, sir.”

  “I see Barfleur was to hand to do the job, Lord Eskdale.”

  “No, sir. Barfleur was drawn to the scene by the guns, sir. She arrived after Otvajni was taken, sir, at considerable cost to Racoon. I shall give the full report later, sir, containing as it does some small surprises.”

  There was no need to tell the Russians of the part played by the Chinese, not until the official line had been decided.

  “You are wounded, Lord Eskdale.”

  “Revolver bullet, sir, taken on Otvajni’s bridge in the last of the fight.”

  “Well done, sir.”

  Erskine could say nothing else; the Russian consul was able to say more, and at length. The admiral made some incomprehensible comment, echoed by his staff, hanging on at his shoulder and loosely interpreted by the consul.

  “The admiral offers his congratulations, sir, and apologises that the peasant swine should have injured you. How many of them survive for trial, sir?”

  “The last report gave a total of seventy-nine, sir, some forty of them more or less wounded. The bulk of the rest are feeding the fishes, sir. Some seem to be missing, but we have been unable to discover who or how many. A boat had been launched, sir, during the night, soon after Otvajni was taken. You will, no doubt, wish to question the prisoners.”

  The consul promised Magnus that would be done, most thoroughly.

  “They will be taken to Port Arthur, my lord, for their trial. Better they should receive the benefits of Russian justice on our own soil. They will be taken in Otvajni, under guard, quickly. Better our shame should not be made public for too long.”

  Magnus bowed silently. Captain Erskine nudged him and whispered.

  “What about prize money?”

  Magnus shrugged and winced at the pain in his arm.

  “Best dealt with higher up, sir. Admiral Seymour will wish to discuss that with the Russian gentleman. Too risky for us, sir, to get involved in diplomacy.”

  Erskine nodded hurriedly – he did not want any risks to upset his quiet existence.

  “Captain Jellicoe coming ashore from Barfleur, sir.”

  Erskine scurried away to pay his respects to the flag-captain and usher him and the Russians into the SNO’s offices.

  “Very useful, Mr Harborough. He can cough out for the gin and whisky now. Didn’t want the buggers in my cabin guzzling my supplies!”

  Harborough gravely noted that tip for his time as a captain, hopefully soon.

  “Captai
n’s lady coming aboard, sir.”

  The sentry at the brow kept the smirk out of his voice, almost.

  “You are wounded, Magnus!”

  “A flesh wound, my love. A revolver bullet in the upper arm and missing the bone. Luckier far than too many of my people. The important thing is that Racoon did her duty, and achieved a fortuitous audience in process.”

  Blantyre agreed that duty must be all to any man, offering his own further comments.

  “You are lucky, my lord. I believe I must offer my congratulations to you. I must return to my office. Will I see you tonight, to hear the tale at first-hand, my lord?”

  “I hope so, sir. I should be granted a few days ashore, wound leave.”

  Captain Jellicoe ushered him off Racoon, setting Mason in his place for the while.

  “If all goes as it should, Lord Eskdale, then that change may become a permanence, sir. That must wait until Admiral Seymour arrives.”

  # # #

  Thank you for reading Shanghai Dreams. The third book in the series is expected to be released in late 2018 - early 2019. Note: The author’s recently completed Innocents at War Series, has received much critical acclaim and comes highly recommended. Find out more here:

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  US - https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B01N6QNS7Y

  UK - https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B01N6QNS7Y

  By the Same Author

  Man of Conflict Series: Youngest son of a wealthy English merchant, Septimus Pearce is an utterly spoiled brat whose disgraceful conduct threatens his family’s good name. His father forces him to join the army in an attempt to reform him, but even the disciplines of army life where he sees bloody action in three countries fail to exorcise his nastier character traits. Please note: This series is currently available to Kindle Unlimited subscribers.