China Seas

by John Harris

  As he emptied his glass, he suddenly wondered if Yip was intending blackmail. Was that how he made his money? There was plenty of opportunity for it in Shanghai because half the taipans who played golf and went to church so earnestly on Sunday had some little Chinese girl discreetly tucked away in a flat, unknown to their wives. It would certainly account for the money Yip had, because a profession of that sort needed no more than a few well-paid spies.

  Then he began to be resentful against Abigail, feeling his dilemma was of her doing, that somehow she had known all the time about Nadya, had pleaded with her to give him up. But this wasn’t in character, he knew. If Abigail had felt she’d lost his love, she would have been frank about it, questioned him and, if still unsatisfied, would have walked out on him. She wasn’t lacking in courage or forthrightness and she wasn’t short of money. But he still wasn’t certain she knew what had been going on, because she had always maintained a blank expression that was either naivety or cleverness – he had no idea which. The resentment grew but, with his fourth large whisky and Apollinaris, he rejected the idea altogether. Abigail wasn’t that sort and, come to that, he had to admit, neither was Nadya. They had met. There was no doubt about that, and it was clear Nadya had been so impressed with Abigail she had accepted that it was her duty to forget Willie.

  ‘You ever been in love?’ Willie asked the barman.

  The barman shrugged. ‘Once or twice.’

  ‘Ever with two women at the same time?’

  ‘I’ve never been that lucky, sir.’

  Willie stared at his glass again. His mood changed and he began to experience a drunken sense of pride in Abigail. Her honesty was enough to make anyone quail before it. He had, many times. It had clearly made Nadya doubtful. But then Nadya must have the same sort of pride, the same sort of honesty. Until she had met Abigail, she had been worried, but, meeting her, she had felt she should have no part of Willie’s life. The unbelievable had happened. His mistress had backed off because she admired his wife.

  ‘One thing,’ Willie said, pushing his glass towards the barman for a refill. ‘If you ever do fall in love with two women at once, make sure one of them’s dishonest.’

  Ignoring the refilled glass, he rose to his feet and, watched by the puzzled barman, who had no idea what he was getting at, steered a careful course between the tables towards the door. He was singing – a trace defiantly.

  ‘I’m a flying fish sailor. Just home from Hong Kong…’

  He went to his room, convinced he would never sleep that night because there was too much on his mind, but in fact, he rolled on to the bed without undressing and, after the whisky, fell sound asleep. He never normally drank much and he sank into a bottomless pit in which all his worries vanished and he began to snore.

  During the night the wind dropped and the cloud cleared, but it seemed there was thunder in the air. Thunder? He opened one eye and saw the sun was out. It didn’t look like thunder, but it sure as hell sounded like thunder.

  He began to lift his head and immediately felt as if his brains were slopping about inside. He put his hand to his temple, which seemed in danger of dropping off, and was about to turn over in the hope of sleeping off some of the hangover when it dawned on him that the thunder he heard came not from outside but from inside. He sat bolt upright with a jerk that made him yelp, convinced that a riot had started and that demonstrators had got into the hotel. Then he realised that someone was hammering on the door.

  Groaning and cursing alternately, he went to the door and unlocked it. The undermanager of the hotel was outside, all smooth face, black coat and striped trousers.

  ‘Forgive me, sir. There’s a message for you. It came early this morning on the telegraph. I telephoned the premises of A N Kourganov as you’ve always instructed, but I was told you weren’t there. I was puzzled because you always stay there – in spite of having a room here.’

  ‘Give me the telegram,’ Willie said.

  The undermanager went on talking, ‘I couldn’t think where you were–’

  ‘Telegram.’

  The envelope was handed over and, as Willie struggled to open it, the undermanager’s explanation went on. ‘Then the barman said you were in the hotel and had been in all night. So–’ he gestured ‘–you must forgive me, for disturbing you, but you insist on having all telegrams delivered at once and that one is marked “Personal. Most urgent.”’

  ‘It is?’

  Dully Willie turned the envelope over to confirm the fact, then, suddenly alarmed, wrenched at the paper so hard it tore the contents as well as the envelope.

  It was from George Kee and it was alarming ‘Suggest immediate return,’ it said. ‘Chiang on move north. Trouble Yangpo. Da Braga badly hurt.’

  Three

  ‘Jesus Christ on a tightrope!’

  Willie groaned, passed a hand over his face and turned to the under-manager. ‘Book me a berth on the first ship going north,’ he said. ‘Send some black coffee up – immediately – and then ask one of the maids to come here and pack for me. Have my bill ready for when I come downstairs.’

  They had all the information at the docks when he arrived, because Canton, where Chiang had been based, was just up the Pearl River, and, by Chinese standards, not far away. The news had been brought down overnight by steamer and the place was agog with excitement.

  Chiang had left the city the previous day gathering about him more than fifty thousand troops, formed into three columns, one of them heading for Wuhan, the triple city of Wuchang, Hankow and Hanyang astride the Yangtze and not far from Yangpo. The warlords, distrusting, argumentative and jealous of each other, all of them suspicious of their neighbours, had failed to implement their alliance as, it seemed, Chiang had known they would, because his agents were swarming across the countryside, passing information.

  And, as Willie knew, the Kuomintang troops were different from those of the warlords. They were smart in green uniforms and, instead of teapots, parasols and umbrellas, carried the banners of the Kuomintang, red squares with a blue quarter containing a white sun insignia. They were young too, mostly of student age, and they didn’t wander or loot, and they didn’t murder unless ordered to. Their discipline was tight and it was obvious why they were popular. Instead of rape, arson and death they were bringing what looked very much like hope to the peasants.

  For a moment, he wondered if it would be worthwhile going up to Canton to find out what was really happening. He knew its high walls and crooked streets well. He had an agent there to organise the produce of Kwangtung province in the shape of tea, silk and cassia, but, since the troubles in South China, he had kept clear of the place and left it to him. When the Merchants’ Volunteer Corps had been crushed, a lot of damage had been done to European prestige and it was never an easy place for foreign devils, because it was the centre of the new nationalistic spirit of China.

  In the end he decided not to go and, instead, called at the newspaper office, where they had always been willing to keep him abreast of any news he’d missed. It seemed that the speed of Chiang’s advance was surprising everybody. The ground ahead of him had been very well prepared by the skilful propaganda of the Communists, supplemented by Kuomintang agents who moved ahead of the army. The resistance everybody had expected was already showing signs of crumbling and, while the peasants were flocking to the KMT arm, in the north the warlords were impeded by riots, strikes and missing supplies.

  When he returned to the hotel the undermanager had found him a first class cabin on the MacDonald Line coaster Tien Quan.

  ‘She’s well guarded,’ he said, ‘because I understand she’s carrying silver for the Shanghai banks from Canton. The merchants are alarmed by Chiang’s moves and decided they preferred their money further north, where it’ll be safer.’

  Willie nodded dully, the thought crossing his mind that if the manager knew what the Tien Quan’s cargo contained so would a few other people.

  Still suffering from a hangover, he sat on de
ck, waiting for the ship to leave and letting the fresh air get to his brain as he tried to work out his plans. There seemed nothing to worry about. Abigail must still be in Japan, and Polly, despite her insistence on staying with her husband, had said she would move down to Shanghai for the sake of the baby.

  His mind returned to Nadya and from Nadya to Zychov, and finally from Zychov to Yip Hsao-Li. What did that bastard do? What did they both do? How did they live in the style they did? Now that Nadya had rejected him, would she turn again to Zychov? The thought of Zychov, opportunist, boastful, overbearing, cowardly, holding Nadya in his arms made him squirm.

  As the hangover wore off, so did his gloom. There had to be no regrets, he decided briskly. He’d start again, get back to Ab and try to make up to her with something. But what? Gifts were pointless when she wasn’t aware that anything had happened? Or was she? Or was it simply his own guilt that was bothering him? In any case – he swung back again to Yip and his threat – perhaps there’d be no chance to start again. Yip had seen him. If he told Ab where he’d seen him and what he was doing, Ab might not want to start again – ever.

  Christ, he thought, what a mess!

  The deck had filled up now with coolies returning north from jobs as houseboys or labourers, their yellow skins tight over skeletal bodies laced with stringy sinew, each with his roll of matting and his camphorwood box containing the earnings he would fritter away gambling. The ship’s compradore was talking to a clerk in a suit of cheap drill and a felt hat. The compradore looked nervous, as well he might because, holding the keys to the ship’s safe, he was always the first man to be sought out by the pirates if there were an attack.

  Just as the ship was due to leave, a car screamed to a stop by the gangplank and a man ran aboard and climbed to the bridge. He was met by the captain and there was a hurried discussion before the man hurried back down the gangplank. The winches stopped and the deck crew sat down, waiting. There were only one or two first class passengers, all of whom had been carefully searched for hidden weapons. The coastal ship’s captains had been caught too often to take chances.

  The bar was opened and the captain appeared to announce that there were a few last-minute passengers, then a car rolled to a stop by the gangway and a woman was helped aboard.

  Mincing and slender, an elaborate headdress hiding her face, her hands concealed in voluminous sleeves, she was led to a cabin in the first class area of the ship.

  ‘Wind-up,’ the captain explained. ‘On the Chung Chih when she was attacked last year. Name of Ching Chei-Lin. Wife of a Canton merchant. She’s got her servants with her. Says she’s going to visit her sister.’ He laughed. ‘It’s my belief she’s keeping an eye on Ching’s silver.’

  A large crate, seated and secured with metal strips, was carried aboard and deposited on the foredeck. ‘Porcelain,’ the captain said. ‘Sealed for safety. There’s one thing; it can’t be carrying weapons. It would take too long to open.’

  Moments later, another car appeared and from it an enormous number of people appeared, first an old man and two old women who handed out boxes and bags, then a group of Chinese girls. Like the woman who had arrived just ahead of them, they wore silk trousers and tunics brilliant with the patterns of flowers and birds, and studded with filigree buttons, their hair held in place by gold-headed pins. They squatted down near the crate round a small stove, waited on by the old man and the old women. Their faces were heavily painted with a great deal of white and red and, with cigarettes in their mouths, waving fans, gesturing and giggling, they looked like a group of sing-song girls.

  ‘Dancing troupe,’ the captain said. ‘Probably some mandarin’s concubines or the contents of a knocking shop. Probably the woman who arrived first’s the Madame.’

  A last search of the ship was made by a white police officer, who announced he had found no weapons, and the captain nodded. As the ropes were cast off the Tien Quan began to move. The weather was warm and still humid and there was an air of nervousness about the ship. Everybody had heard of Chiang’s move and most of the first class passengers were businessmen returning in a hurry to Shanghai to keep an eye on their affairs up the Yangtze. Willie kept himself apart, one part of his mind on Kee’s telegram, another on Nadya’s decision, a third on the fact that Yip had seen her kissing him. Whatever Abigail might have thought of Nadya in the past she would soon change her mind if she knew her husband was in the habit of visiting her and kissing her goodbye.

  As they left the coast behind, the sea filled with junks. Close behind was a black-funnelled ship, followed by a small French vessel burning atrocious coal, that was picking its way through the coastal traffic. The heat was enough to make everyone fall asleep after lunch, all except for the girls on the foredeck, who went on with their chattering and giggling. Sunset flooded the sky with crimson and the sea was the blue of a peacock’s throat. In the glare, the whole ship seemed to glow, the upper works the colour of coral, the black hull purple in the extraordinary light. As it changed to dusk, the sea, which had been full of crimson diamonds, changed to the colour of pewter.

  The ship’s guards, Sikh soldiers who had taken their pensions, dozed outside the first class area, their rifles alongside them. The moon rose and the dancing girls remained on deck, still smoking cigarettes and chattering in low-pitched voices with the two old women. Willie watched them for a long time before retiring, his mind in a turmoil. Why the bloody hell had Yip happened to see him with Nadya? What the hell was he doing in Hong Kong, anyway? Why had Nadya let him down? Why the hell couldn’t a man love two women without being unfaithful? And why, above all, had Chiang chosen this moment in time to start his bloody march north against the warlords?

  His mind was still seething as he headed for his cabin. By this time, two of the dancing girls were performing for the rest of the passengers, who were chirruping with delight as they moved their feet in small intricate steps. The older woman who had come aboard first joined them, moving with them, in a small scene that looked like one of the Chinese prints Abigail sold. Except – Willie frowned – except that somehow it seemed wrong. At the back of his mind something stirred, nagging at his consciousness, but he shrugged it off, his thoughts once more preoccupied with his problems.

  Though it was not yet fully daylight, the Chinese deck passengers were already astir when Willie went on deck the next morning, some of them already heading for the galley with their bowls for their morning rice, one or two of them setting up little stoves and cooking themselves. The captain and the chief engineer were talking by the bridge ladder.

  Sniffing the air, he decided it hadn’t changed much and was an improvement on the typhoon that had accompanied him south. As he turned into the alleyway to go to his cabin to shave and dress, he noticed the ship was wallowing in an oily, lifting sea. A junk with its brown bat-wing sail was heading towards them, almost as if it intended to ram them, and it crossed his mind to wonder what it was up to. The foredeck was still littered with sleeping shapes, as if it were the aftermath of a battle, and in the doorway to the engine room two naked sweating firemen gulped air into their lungs.

  Then, from the corner of his eye he saw the woman in first class who had come aboard the ship at the last moment fish something from one of her wide silk sleeves and toss it to the old man who had accompanied the dancing girls and almost immediately heard a shot. Wheeling round, he saw the Sikh guard at the open end of the alleyway staggering backwards, clutching his stomach. Standing over him, holding a smoking revolver, was the old man, straight now, his back no longer bent. Beyond him, he saw the dancing girls struggling with the crate and realised that the metal strips that had sealed it had been cut during the night and that they had already almost got the lid off.

  Still unseen, for a second Willie stared, wondering what was happening, before it suddenly dawned on him. The object he’d seen tossed to the old man had been a revolver and without doubt the crate on the foredeck contained more. Even as he watched, he saw the lid fall to the
deck and one of the dancing girls reach inside among the wood-wool that packed it. Christ on a tightrope, he thought, it was the piracy job he’d been fearing for years on his own ships! And that junk that was bearing down on them to starboard was full of bloodthirsty sods with guns, hopped up with opium, who were about to board them and slit their throats.

  Diving into his cabin, he snatched up the big Russian revolver he had carried on his journeys ever since his youth. More shots rang out and he swung the door open again to find himself staring at the old man who, he saw now that he was at close quarters, was not an old man at all, but a young man skilfully made up. He was still glancing over his shoulder at the squirming Sikh as Willie shot him in the back.

  There was a tremendous amount of shouting and screaming going on, on deck, and a lot of wild shooting, and nobody noticed his single shot. Still clutching the revolver, he picked up the groaning Sikh’s rifle and headed for the deck, banging a warning on cabin doors as he passed. As he emerged, he saw the captain and the engineer lying in a huddle at the top of the bridge ladder and two of the ‘dancing girls’, their wigs discarded, the white paint still on their faces, climbing up to them to take control of the ship.

  The woman who had come aboard at the last minute was now on the foredeck, pointing, and as she turned, with a shock he saw it was Yip Hsao-Li in woman’s clothing. For a second, he couldn’t grasp the meaning of it, then the facts hammered themselves into his brain. Of course! The dancing steps the night before should have told him! He realised now what had worried him as he had watched the dancing girls. Somehow Yip’s love of dancing had nudged its way into his mind and, because of his problems, he had failed to recognise the warning.

  Yip – and probably that bastard, Zychov! – had been the brains behind all the piracy swoops of the last few years, with Yip probably responsible for a long time even before that. The first revolvers, the ones it was always necessary to hide against the search, had been inside Yip’s flowing female garments. With the first shots, more weapons had come from the sealed crate, and following that, it was easy.