China Seas

by John Harris

  With the northern shore just visible as a purple line in the distance, they stopped a junk and, as it came alongside, Willie and the other two men stepped aboard and started to offer bribes. With wide grins, nods and gestures, the Chinese captain agreed to take the three men north and land them as near as he could to Port Arthur.

  ‘No Port Arthur, Mastah,’ he said. ‘Plenty trouble there. Foreign devil go chop-chop China many time. Now foreign devil go chop-chop foreign devil too. Mebbe good for China.’

  As their luggage was brought on deck and they prepared to board the junk, Shaiba, who had been watching everything that was happening with an intense look of concentration on his face, touched Willie’s arm and drew him on one side.

  ‘I think you should not go, Mr Sarth,’ he whispered.

  ‘Why not? I’ve got business in there. A collier full of coal.’

  ‘You might be wiser to leave it there and continue your journey.’

  Willie eyed the Japanese shrewdly. ‘Why?’

  ‘I think there will be problems.’

  Willie still found it hard to believe. ‘Surely Japan won’t be mad enough to go to war with Russia? The Tsar’s got a colossal army and a large fleet at Port Arthur.’

  Shaiba smiled. ‘Neither of them very efficient, I suspect.’

  ‘They can soon get reinforcements. Along the TransSiberian Railway.’

  ‘That also I doubt, Mr Sarth. You can’t carry a ship on a railway truck and the rest of their navy is in the Baltic, and that’s half-way round the world. As for reinforcements – well, I know even if you don’t, that the Trans-Siberian Railway isn’t yet complete. There is a gap in it at Lake Baikal near Irkutsk and everything has to be unloaded and transferred to lake steamers, then reloaded at the other side for the rest of the journey to Port Arthur.’

  The rumours that Shaiba was a Japanese agent came back to Willie’s mind. ‘Look here, Yuhitsu, old son, do you know something I ought to know?’

  Shaiba held up his hand in protest. ‘I can’t tell you, Mr Sarth, but I would advise you, if you insist on going in, to be ready to leave before the night of February 8th.’

  ‘Why?’ Willie drew the Japanese along the deck away from the other passengers. ‘What is it you know, Yuhitsu? Is that when Japan intends to declare war or something?’

  ‘I cannot tell you, Mister Sarth. I am just warning you.’

  ‘Because you know something?’

  ‘I know things.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Because it is my job to know things.’

  So Shaiba was some sort of spy. He had always been talking about Russian naval strength and listening to the Russian officers in Peking. He obviously knew something of importance.

  ‘Come on, Yuhitsu,’ he urged. ‘Give it to me.’

  ‘That I cannot do, Mr Sarth,’ Shaiba said. ‘It would be more than my career’s worth.’

  ‘Career? What as? A legation clerk?’

  Shaiba stiffened. ‘I am not just a legation clerk, Mr Sarth,’ he said. ‘I am an attaché, though that is not generally known. I am an officer in the Japanese Imperial Navy.’

  Willie stared at the Japanese. So the stories had been right, and he began to see why Shaiba had always found the Russians so interesting. Doubtless, he had all the time been filing away everything they said, all the secrets, all the little indiscretions they let slip, in a series of little niches in his mind.

  ‘Still?’ he asked.

  ‘Still. I have the rank of captain. I should not be telling you this, of course, but without doubt you saved my life and I must discharge my debt. Be careful. Especially on the night of February 8th. After that Port Arthur will be cut off from the world.’

  As he walked away along the deck, Willie stared after him, then, aware of the other two businessmen shouting to him to hurry, with a shrug he cocked a leg over the rail of the Shu Chi and dropped to the deck of the junk.

  The Shu Chi’s telegraphs clanged, the water at her stern churned brown and frothy and she began to draw away. The junk’s captain began to shout in a high-pitched voice and the slatted sail clattered up the mast and the water alongside began to move as she swung north.

  For a long time they headed landwards without seeing any other traffic, then the hills of the Liaotung Peninsula came in sight, and finally the white buildings of the Russian naval base.

  ‘No sign of the Japanese there,’ the American businessman pointed out cheerfully, his head down in the fur collar of his coat. ‘And look at the Russkies. They’re obviously not expecting trouble.’

  Certainly, there was no indication of warlike intent. The Russian warships, battleships and cruisers were anchored outside the harbour.

  ‘That’s to stop the Japanese getting in,’ the American went on. ‘They could never do it with that lot in the way.’

  Staring at the silent shapes of the ironclads with their tall stacks, Willie could see guns and boats moving between them manned by uniformed men. He drew a deep breath. Emmeline’s coal was as good as his.

  But, as they drew nearer and the buildings ashore became plainer, a steam harbour launch came hurtling from behind the anchored war ships. Drawing alongside, it ordered the junk to stop. The slatted sail clattered down and a Russian naval officer, smart in a blue uniform with aiguillettes and shoulder epaulettes like planks, climbed aboard. He began to speak in French, but eventually switched to a halting English.

  ‘No traffic,’ he said, pointing to the shore. ‘No is possible.’

  ‘We have business,’ Willie said, raising his voice because it always seemed easier to get a meaning across to foreigners by shouting at them.

  The Russian shook his head. ‘No possible. Must go to Tientsin.’

  There was a lot of arguing in three or four languages, but the Russian got his point across by pointing out the small gun on the launch’s bows, and the Chinese captain decided he was taking no chances. As the sail rose again, he turned the nose of the junk westwards.

  ‘I take mastahs Chanchow,’ he announced. ‘That way more better.’

  There was nothing they could do about it, but Willie was determined not to be beaten. Emmeline’s collier and its cargo drew him like a magnet. He was a shipping tycoon now and he was going to remain one. Neither the Russians nor the Japanese were going to stop him.

  Chanchow was a small fishing harbour, at that moment packed with junks and small sailing vessels because of the Russian closure of Port Arthur, but the Chinese were always quick to adapt and there were horses to be hired and a guide to lead them along the coast to the port. The horses, in fact, were ponies, small and shaggy and with a dreadful boneshaking trot. The travellers had to spend the night in a village inn, stretched out on wooden beds in a freezing room, scratching at the fleas that infested the mattresses. The next morning they set off again. As the roofs of Port Arthur came in sight, they found the road barricaded, and a Russian sentry, a blank-faced youth with a long bayonet, stepped in front of them and ordered them back. From the officer in command of the outpost they learned that the road was barred to everybody because of the tension, but the Chinese guide was equal to the occasion. He led them back down the road until they were out of sight, then turned off among the gullies and valleys, and led them by a roundabout route to a point north of the city.

  Eventually he stopped. ‘Mastahs walk now,’ he said and they were obliged to continue the journey on foot.

  It didn’t seem to have occurred to the Russians that a barricade across a road could be by-passed, and nobody stopped them. Dusty, footsore and hungry, they finally arrived in the northern outskirts of the port, where they were able to hire a carriage which took them to the centre. It was bitterly cold, with the wind bringing flurries of snow as they arrived. It was also dark, but the place showed no sign of any preparations for war. The port facilities had been electrified and the sky blazed with light among the storehouses near the naval base. The first thing that was needed was food and, while the German and the American went in sear
ch of a hotel, Willie was satisfied with a dockside restaurant. It was full of merchant navy officers, with a few senior petty officers from the Russian navy. Drink was flowing freely among the noise and the smoke and, somewhere at the back, half-hidden by the diners, a man was playing a balalaika.

  Finishing his food, Willie went in search of the Lady Roberts. She was moored alongside a wooden jetty, dirty and pocked with rust. She had a flat overhang stern and a stack like a long Russian cigarette.

  ‘Oh, Lor’,’ he muttered.

  The Lady Roberts looked as if she hadn’t been painted in years. She was a deep-draught vessel and looked the last word in decrepitude and decay. Then he brightened up. The shipping contract he had obtained from Emmeline showed she had holds full of good Welsh coal which would bring him money if he could get it to Shanghai, where the navy controller wouldn’t argue so long as he could show its quality.

  The captain was a ginger-whiskered Geordie called Hankinson and, after searching among narrow alleyways all painted a uniform drab brown, Willie found him in his cabin with the engineer, who seemed to match him for ill looks, sourness and general shabbiness. They were both wearing overcoats, caps, gloves and scarves and were playing draughts and drinking tea laced with rum. Neither of them looked as though he had much to recommend him beyond a bad temper.

  Hankinson was on his feet at once as Willie burst in. ‘Who the hell are you?’ he demanded.

  ‘I’m William Sarth,’ Willie said. ‘I’m the owner of this ship.’

  Hankinson’s brows came down. ‘This ship’s owned by Wishart and Co.’

  ‘Not any more. I bought her.’

  Hankinson’s glare hardened. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I hope you’re a bloody sight better than Wishart’s at paying. And since you’re here, what the hell am I waiting for? My orders were to bring the coal, but I’ve been here a month now and nobody wants it.’

  ‘I want it,’ Willie said. ‘I’ve paid for it and it’s mine.’

  ‘Right,’ Hankinson said. ‘How about our wages then?’

  ‘What wages? The crew gets paid off when the voyage ends.’

  ‘Crew, yes. Not me.’ Hankinson gestured at the engineer. ‘Not him. We draw salaries and we haven’t been paid.’

  Willie swallowed, aware once more that he probably ought to have been more careful. ‘You will be,’ he said. ‘As soon as we get to Shanghai.’

  ‘Right,’ Hankinson clearly hadn’t finished yet. ‘What about the insurance?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘You paid it?’

  ‘Should I have?’

  ‘That bastard, Gummer, shoulda paid it before we left Hong Kong,’ Hankinson said. ‘I reckon he peed it up against a lavatory wall.’

  ‘How much is it?’ Willie asked.

  The sum staggered him and again he realised he had been a little too precipitate in his desire to become a shipping magnate.

  ‘We wouldn’ta got away with it in Newcastle nor anywhere at home,’ Hankinson went on, growling away in a surly monotone. ‘Out here it’s a bit different. But, matey, you lose this ship and you’re in bad trouble.’

  ‘We shan’t lose it,’ Willie said, with more confidence than he felt. ‘We’re leaving, and when we get to a British port I’ll sort everything out. Wages. Salaries. Insurance. The lot. I want you out of here as soon as possible and on your way.’

  But when they went ashore he discovered it wasn’t as easy as he’d expected. At the harbourmaster’s office they learned that, because of the impending conflict, the harbourmaster’s duties had been taken over by an officer at naval headquarters. Hankinson’s attitude was one of rudeness to everybody and his method of getting anything to be as unpleasant as possible. In the end Willie told him he’d manage on his own.

  Finding his way to the naval headquarters, he was shown into a splendid office where a man was staring through the window with a telescope towards the sea. Something about him seemed familiar and as he turned Willie found himself staring at Count Zychov.

  ‘You!’ he breathed. ‘You!’

  Zychov clearly didn’t recognise Willie with the big fashionable moustache he had grown. His own moustache was still splendidly curled and Willie wondered if he still bandaged it at night.

  ‘I don’t know you,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ Willie said. ‘I expect you’ve forgotten Shantu. But I haven’t.’

  The reminder obviously struck home and Zychov’s eye’s narrowed. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘In addition to you and one woman, the only survivor of the expedition to bring in the missionaries to Peking. I watched you bolt.’

  Zychov was clearly shaken and for a while he said nothing, but then he began to recover.

  ‘I’ve never been to Shantu,’ he said. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘China. Shensi province. South-west of Peking.’

  ‘I was never in Peking.’

  ‘You were not only in Peking, you took a party to Shantu and ran away when we were attacked by Boxers.’

  It was the wrong approach, as bad for getting things done as Hankinson’s rudeness, and they were on the wrong foot at once. Zychov continued to insist he had never been to Peking, still less Shantu, and within seconds the chances of getting the Lady Roberts away had evaporated completely. The demand for clearance was refused peremptorily.

  ‘Nothing leaves Port Arthur,’ Zychov said. ‘We expect war to be declared before the spring.’

  Swallowing his anger and his pride, Willie began to plead as he saw his chances of becoming a shipping magnate disappearing with his bank balance. If he didn’t get the Lady Roberts clear, he stood to have practically all his capital tied up for the duration of the war and, if by chance the Lady Roberts was sunk either by the Russians or the Japanese, it would disappear entirely because of Gummer’s failure to insure her.

  ‘Once we’ve got steam up,’ he insisted, ‘my ship can be clear of the harbour in half an hour. I’m a British citizen and the Lady Roberts is a British ship. We don’t want to interfere with your war. We just want to get to Shanghai.’

  Zychov sniffed, an aristocratic sniff that intimated his disdain. ‘You should have thought of that,’ he said, ‘when your country made its alliance with the toothy little men from across the Yellow Sea. Russia is being challenged by the precocious nationalism of a state that’s barely fifty years old. Port Arthur will never be allowed to fall. It’s Russia’s most northerly ice-free port on the mainland of Asia.’

  ‘It was Japan’s once,’ Willie said.

  ‘And Russian pressure forced her out. Our conception of the balance of power in the east does not countenance the upsetting influence of this youthful country. We’re not deaf to the aggressive sounds from across the Yellow Sea. Manchuria and Korea are rich in natural resources and it’s intolerable that any country but Russia should be allowed to develop them.’

  Outside the office, Willie stared about him furiously. Emmeline had put it across him! She had known all the time she was selling him a ship with a cargo of coal he couldn’t use, that no salaries had been paid and no insurance taken out.

  ‘Lor’,’ he said, shocked at his own stupidity.

  Heading back to the Lady Roberts, he found Hankinson and the engineer again busy with the draughts.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘how soon can we sail if I can get permission?’

  ‘Right off if we had steam up.’

  ‘Well, I’m not going to sit on my backside here for the duration of the war.’

  ‘You’ll be lucky, sonny,’ Hankinson said. ‘We’ve just heard that the Japanese withdrew their Minister from St Petersburg two days ago. They’re going to fight.’

  ‘I don’t give a bugger if they are,’ Willie snorted. ‘And don’t call me “Sonny”.’

  Returning to the hotel where he had booked a room, Willie was just frowning at his drink in a lounge surrounded by palm trees and ferns when he realised he was wasting money that he might well need in the near future. Swallowing his drink, he headed for hi
s room, collected his luggage and booked out.

  When he appeared on the deck of the Lady Roberts, Hankinson stared at him as if he were some sort of burglar.

  ‘What’s all this then?’ he demanded.

  ‘I want a room.’

  ‘You mean a cabin.’

  ‘All right – a cabin. With a bed–’

  ‘Bunk.’

  ‘–and a wall–’

  ‘Bulkhead.’

  Willie lost his temper. ‘All right,’ he roared. ‘A bloody cabin, with a bloody bunk and a bloody bulkhead where I can hang my hat and coat!’

  ‘We ain’t got one.’

  ‘Then you’d better find one!’

  ‘I’m not in the hotel business, matey.’

  ‘Then you’d better start.’

  Hankinson glanced at the engineer, deciding that the new owner had more about him than was obvious on the surface. ‘You’d better have the mate’s,’ he said.

  ‘What about the mate?’

  ‘He won’t want it no more. He got his throat cut in Singapore. He went after a woman when we put in for water on the way here.’

  Dumping his luggage, Willie immediately went ashore again to see what could be done. It was obviously pointless trying to see Zychov, who quite clearly knew who he was, so he decided to try someone else, if possible of higher rank.

  But the Russians believed in a policy of strict working hours, and by this time, despite the imminence of war, all the offices were shut and there was no alternative but to wait. The following day, he tried again, but now no one even had time to see him. Japanese torpedo boat destroyers had been seen off Chemulpo and the Russians were worried.

  Highly indignant because war hadn’t been declared, they had no time for Willie’s problems, only for their own concerns. The activity in the harbour increased and picket boats and harbour launches buzzed across the water like beetles, chugging away in clouds of steam as they went round the fleet. Ponderously, slowly, the great iron ships began to move.

  Furious because he was now as much trapped in the Russian base as the ship and the cargo he had come to collect, Willie tried to hang on to his temper but, in the end, he was physically thrown out of naval headquarters. Hankinson picked him up. ‘I’m still waiting, sonny,’ he jeered.