China Seas

by John Harris

  Brassard’s laugh was embarrassed and the comment started a train of thought in Willie’s mind. For years he’d not been in touch with his brother and he had a sudden guilty feeling that he ought to have sent a few small contributions to the family which had looked after him on his parents’ deaths.

  Sending Abigail on a spending spree round the shops, he set off to find Arthur Sarth. But he was too late. His brother had died in the ’flu epidemic and, awkwardly, embarrassed, feeling he ought to have tried before, at least to have sent money to help someone who had been neither as clever nor as lucky as he had, he left a large cheque with his brother’s widow.

  ‘It’ll help a bit,’ he mumbled as he left.

  Wainwright and Halliday’s seemed to have disappeared entirely and the premises were now occupied by a different firm altogether. Curiously it seemed to be the trigger that made Willie itch to move on. He’d suddenly had enough of London and was anxious to return to Shanghai. He hadn’t realised just how much his roots were there, and it was decided that the family, less Edward, who had returned to his ship, should cross the Atlantic in the Berengaria, visit New York and the agent who handled Abigail’s antiques, see a few of the museums, then take the train across to the West Coast and finally return to Shanghai via the Pacific to complete a round-the-world trip.

  Two nights before they had planned to leave, they went to the theatre and, as they crossed the foyer, Willie was surprised to find himself rubbing shoulders with Mallinson. He was in London now, still languid but now holding a more responsible position in the Foreign Office, and with a knighthood for services rendered during the war. He chatted amiably with Willie’s family, but, as they turned to head for their seats, he touched Willie’s arm and drew him to one side.

  ‘Glad I met you, William,’ he said. ‘I see from the financial columns that Sarth’s are inching up among the big ones.’

  ‘Not all that far,’ Willie said modestly. ‘I’ve got better things to do than spend all my time just making money.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’ Mallinson smiled. ‘Because, as it happens, you’re just the man I want to see. How about meeting me in the bar during the interval?’

  It wasn’t difficult to slip away and, as Willie entered the crowded bar, Mallinson pushed a large scotch into his hand. ‘When are you due to go back?’ he asked.

  ‘End of the week. Via the States and the Pacific.’

  Mallinson stared at his drink. ‘Take around six weeks,’ he said. ‘More, shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘I reckon so.’

  ‘You could do it more quickly if you went via the Mediterranean and Suez.’

  ‘Suppose I could.’ Willie looked sharply at the Foreign Office man. ‘Something’s on your mind, Arthur? What is it?’

  ‘Russia,’ Mallinson said. ‘What have you heard?’

  ‘I’ve had a few dark reports.’

  ‘So have I. Things aren’t going as well as they should. This intervention thing was Churchill’s idea. He made a mess of the Dardanelles and it looks to me as though he’s probably made a mess of this one, too. A few British soldiers and fliers in a place as big as Russia aren’t going to make all that much difference. What do you make of this feller, Kolchak?’

  ‘Too full of himself.’

  ‘That’s what we think. He’s started calling himself the Supreme Ruler and says he’s taken command of all the forces of the land and sea of Russia. That’s nonsense, of course. He has nothing to do with the troops in Murmansk, Estonia and South Russia. He’s not even in contact with them, in fact, because he’s too far away. But we keep getting reports from the British Military Mission that Red morale is deteriorating and that this winter their army will melt away. Any comments?’

  ‘Yes. It’s moonshine. At the first reverse, that’s exactly what’ll happen to Kolchak. He’ll go into reverse.’

  ‘We can’t get proof of it,’ Mallinson said thoughtfully. ‘You know the army. They’re permanent optimists. Look at the Somme. The Big Push that was to take us to Berlin. It got nowhere. Passchendaele and Cambrai. The same. It was only when we put our armies under the command of a Frenchman, Foch, that we began to get anywhere.’

  The bell rang for the end of the interval and Mallinson downed the remains of his drink. ‘Come and see me at the office tomorrow, William,’ he suggested. ‘I’d like to hear more of your opinions. I’ll leave a message to have you shown in straightaway. Can you do it?’

  Willie could. What was more, he wanted to. He was a man with a lot of energy and he was itching to be active. He had grown tired of visiting the sights and the theatres, and eating and drinking in hotels. Even the people around him didn’t appeal to him. After the vibrant life of Shanghai, where everyone they knew was a driving force – sometimes even not too honest a driving force – London society seemed feeble, stupid and boring.

  Abigail raised no objections, because she’d met Mallinson several times, and she took the children off to Kew Gardens to leave the morning free.

  Mallinson rose as Willie entered, and indicated an overstuffed chair that seemed to envelop him. Coffee appeared at once.

  ‘Go on, William,’ he said. ‘What else can you tell me?’

  ‘If I were you,’ Willie suggested, ‘I’d tell the army to make sure their rear’s well covered and they can back off. The whole of the Trans-Siberian Railway’s in the hands of the Czechs and I hear they don’t like Kolchak.’

  ‘Tell me about the Czechs. They went to Russia to free their country from Austria. Well, it looks as if they’ve managed it, because Austria’s finished.’

  ‘The Czechs in Russia aren’t,’ Willie pointed out. ‘When Russia collapsed they set off back across Siberia to fight in France, but they didn’t hand in their weapons, because they were afraid of the Bolsheviks, and when they were attacked they seized every important town on the railway as far as Irkutsk and Vladivostok. That’s what started the civil war. When it was seen that they’d beaten the Bolsheviks, everbody else thought they could, too. They won’t though, Arthur.’

  ‘That your considered opinion?’

  ‘The Russians want to settle their own destiny, even if it’s the wrong one. They don’t want a government imposed on ’em by foreign troops. Besides,’ Willie frowned, ‘most of the White army regiments are led by officers who’re largely useless, and the troops are unwilling conscripts who’ll shoot them in the back if they get a chance.’

  ‘The British government gave the Omsk government a loan of ten million quid, William. It’s on one of Kolchak’s trains somewhere near Omsk and we’ve just heard it’s due to be despatched eastwards. They wouldn’t do that if there was any chance of holding Omsk.’ Mallinson frowned. ‘The London banks are growing worried about it.’

  ‘Shanghai bankers wouldn’t have lent it.’

  Mallinson frowned. ‘When did you say you were returning?’

  ‘I’ll be back in Shanghai in six weeks.’

  ‘Cut it short, William!’

  Willie sat up and Mallinson leaned forward.

  ‘We’ve had another report this morning that Kolchak’s still advancing and that his troops are across the Tobol River and expect to be in Moscow before the year’s out.’

  ‘He’s a hell of a long way from his base,’ Willie observed.

  ‘That’s my view. We want to know the truth.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘I’d like you to go up to Vladivostok and get along that railway and find out just what is happening.’

  Willie was suitably but not very convincingly indignant. ‘You know what you’re asking? I’m on holiday with my wife. The first holiday west of Suez since 1900.’

  ‘We need someone like you, William. Someone the military won’t suspect of spying on them.’

  ‘I can’t do it.’

  ‘I think you can, William.’

  Willie frowned. He wasn’t looking forward to another six weeks of doing nothing, particularly as dark reports from George Kee were being passed on to him by B
rassard. There had been a series of strikes and more than one riot at Hangkow, Yangpo and the treaty ports up the Yangtze. The increasing chaos created by the warlords was affecting business. In addition, he had plenty of reasons for wishing to return to Vladivostok, though he knew he daren’t broach the subject to Abigail. She had never again mentioned Emmeline’s accusation and he knew he would never know how much she knew.

  Then, suddenly an idea occurred to him. ‘I’ll go,’ he said. ‘But I’ll need to have someone with me.’

  Mallinson shrugged. ‘We shan’t object to that. Who do you suggest?’

  ‘My London agent. Chap called Brassard.’

  Mallinson studied Willie for a moment. He’d heard of Willie’s association with Nadya Alexsandrovna Kourganova, because there wasn’t a lot that Mallinson missed, and he guessed that Brassard was some sort of alibi.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘That can be arranged. When will you be ready?’

  Willie looked startled. ‘You rushing me?’

  Mallinson smiled. ‘It’s a rush job,’ he said.

  Abigail showed no sign of resentment when Willie put forward the bones of Mallinson’s scheme to her. She had a suspicion there was more to it than he said because by this time she knew her Willie well. The old complaints she’d heard so often from men trying to make a pass at her – and they often did – ‘My wife doesn’t understand me’ – carried no weight with her because she had long since come to the conclusion that nobody understood a husband more than his wife.

  Willie wasn’t reckless, she knew, and always had his feet firmly on the earth, and she believed that after his fashion he was faithful. But she had long suspected his trips to Vladivostok. Since, however, he always showed to her, Abigail, every sign of affection and no indication that he wanted to be rid of her, she was satisfied. Willie was old-fashioned in a way, the sort of merchant-adventurer that had gone out of fashion with the turn of the century, and, knowing she could never curb him, indeed, that trying to curb him would destroy both him and their relationship, she was content in her quiet way to accept his occasional disappearances. He had always come back and in her heart she knew he always would, and for Abigail, intelligent, honest, loyal, understanding and selfless – her thoughts, despite the business she had built up, the money she had in the bank, only for her husband and children – was content to leave it at that.

  She knew with certainty, however, that he was up to something – perhaps some undercover work for Mallinson such as he had undertaken before – if only from his noisy protestations that he didn’t wish to leave her and his wish that she should in no way feel inhibited.

  ‘It’s another government job,’ he explained. ‘Foreign Office. Practically an order. I’m to take Brassard with me to make it look like business. I’ve to travel along the railway as far as I can get, which will probably be Omsk.’

  ‘It sounds as though it could be difficult,’ Abigail said quietly. ‘Especially with winter coming on.’

  She agreed to take up the arrangements Willie had made and continue to America as planned, then proceed to the West Coast and return via the Pacific. Brassard’s reaction to the proposed trip was one of fear and excitement at the same time. He was very much a Londoner and very much a city dweller whom even Hyde Park terrified with the width of its open spaces. But he couldn’t resist the idea of a trip to China and Russia.

  ‘I can put you in touch with trade,’ Willie promised. ‘Make arrangements with your bank to have money available.’

  ‘Is your wife going?’ Brassard asked.

  ‘My wife’ll be on her way to America,’ Willie said shortly.

  When he telephoned Mallinson to say he was ready and only needed to acquire the tickets to leave within forty-eight hours, Mallinson cut him short. ‘Be at Portsmouth naval dockyard tomorrow at six p.m.,’ he said.

  ‘Liners don’t run from the naval dockyard.’

  ‘You’re not travelling by liner.’

  Puzzled, Willie said goodbye to Abigail the following morning. ‘Spend what you like,’ he said. ‘Enjoy yourself.’ There was a feeling of guilt behind his words because she had accepted the fact that he was going to Omsk via Vladivostok without comment.

  The following day, Willie and Brassard travelled from Victoria to Portsmouth, Brassard already in a twitter of nerves. At the dock gates, they found they were expected.

  ‘One moment, gentlemen,’ the petty officer on duty said. ‘Someone will be along for you. They’re expecting you.’

  Within a minute or two, a young lieutenant appeared with two bluejackets pushing a trolley. ‘This way, gentlemen,’ he said.

  The luggage was loaded and they followed the officer across a wide stretch of asphalt and round the back of a large shed to the water’s edge. In front of them was the grey shape of a warship.

  Willie stopped. ‘What’s this?’ he asked.

  ‘Light cruiser, Endeavour, sir.’

  ‘You mean we’re travelling in a cruiser?’

  ‘Those are our orders, sir. We’re due for the Far East Squadron at Shanghai and we’ve been told to give you passage. It shouldn’t take long because we’re needed there in a hurry.’

  Brassard was thrilled to be travelling in a warship and as he minced up the gangway the sailors eyed each other with grins. They had been given two cabins, both minute, and were hardly installed when they heard bosun’s whistles shrilling and the sound of running feet. Soon afterwards, they heard the clank of winches and the quayside began to move past their portholes.

  ‘We’re off,’ Brassard said.

  And in a bloody hurry, too, Willie thought. Somebody was growing anxious, and it wasn’t only Willie Sarth.

  They took drinks in the wardroom and were invited to meet the captain, a tall, languid, fair-haired man with a row of medals like a sunburst on his chest. He was politely interested to learn that Willie’s son was in the Navy, was clearly not very impressed by Brassard, but was certainly impressed by the importance of someone who had to be rushed to the Far East in a naval vessel.

  The ship headed down-Channel at speed, running at once, as she rounded the point at Finisterre, into a Biscay gale. She barely reduced speed and the crashings and clatterings and the pounding decks reduced Brassard almost to tears and to wishing he had never left London. However, he cheered up as they sped through the Mediterranean, and finally recovered his excitement as he saw Egypt. But they didn’t go ashore and all they saw of the Middle East apart from the top of a mosque as they passed through the Suez Canal, was from a distance. In the Red Sea, Brassard began to complain about the heat and continued from then on as they refuelled in Aden until they reached Shanghai. The captain of Endeavour seemed glad to be shot of them both, and they were dumped with all their luggage on the quayside, where a car, summoned by the naval dockyard, met them. George Kee, informed by telegraph, had the tickets for the trip northwards, together with a pile of invoices and bills of lading for Willie to inspect, then they were driven to the river again, where they climbed aboard the coastal steamer.

  Brassard gave Willie a reproachful look as the ship cast off and swung towards the open sea.

  ‘All this way,’ he bleated. ‘Egypt, India and now China, and I’ve seen nothing.’

  Willie gave him a grim smile. ‘You can take your time going back,’ he said. ‘I’ll stand any extra expenses and you’ll have plenty of chance to get to know Russia.’

  Vladivostok was more crowded than ever, with Allied uniforms and flags everywhere. The best hotels had all been taken over, but by bribery Willie managed to find a room at the Alexsandr. It had a small salon which seemed suitable for doing business. ‘Yours,’ he said to Brassard.

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I have somewhere to go. I’ll send you an interpreter to help you and you’ll find things are going cheap because there are a lot of refugees who’ve escaped only with what they could stuff in their pockets. They’re desperate for money so don’t do ’em down. I’ll arrange for people to see yo
u in your room.’

  ‘You have an agent here?’

  Willie avoided Brassard’s eyes. ‘Not exactly an agent,’ he said.

  Five

  Nadya Alexsandrovna was overjoyed to see Willie. She looked more beautiful than ever, but she had become thinner and looked a little tired and strained.

  Vladivostok had changed, too. Never one of the most beautiful of cities, it was now grey with filth and degradation and swarming with people fleeing from the revolution. They lived in hovels or old railway trucks, the women determined, the men largely self-pitying. Americans, French and British ships were still bringing in war material and it didn’t take Willie more than an hour or two to realise that the European powers had got the whole thing wrong. What they were trying to do was no more than a pinprick on the vast acres of Russia, and the recruits who were being brought in were the dregs of Siberia, without boots or hats, their belongings carried in a single small bundle.

  Nadya Alexsandrovna made no bones about the situation. ‘The Bolsheviki are advancing,’ she said at once. ‘Their direction of the fighting is much superior to the Whites’ and their troops have conviction. Ours have none. They are averaging an advance of twenty-six miles every twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Where’s Kolchak?’

  ‘It’s not certain, but his government departments are supposed to be moving from Omsk to Irkutsk.’ She took Willie’s hands in hers. ‘Oh, William, I can’t believe that you’re here again!’

  She was clearly labouring under some stress and he insisted on knowing what was worrying her. At first she wouldn’t tell him and he assumed it was the problems of the revolution affecting her business, but she claimed that trade was still good.

  ‘What then?’

  Still she hesitated then, suddenly, as if she needed to get it off her chest, she blurted out the truth.

  ‘My husband was here,’ she said.

  It was like a blow in the stomach. ‘Here!’ Willie said. ‘In Vladivostok?’

  ‘He escaped to the Crimea when the revolution started, but he was sent here as part of a mission from General Denikin to co-ordinate the southern advance with General Kolchak.’