by John Harris
There was always a sharp watch kept along the Shanghai wharves, but it still wasn’t hard to use the old trick that had so often bamboozled the Customs officials in the past. Changing places and berths at the Upper Section Wharves, small ships could still appear to change their identity and, with a little money in the right pockets, Gemelta changed hers with that of an Indian-registered ship and was able to make her way downriver.
As she left, her place was taken two days later by the Lady Roberts, due to pick up a cargo that Willie knew now would never appear. As she moved to her berth, he went on board and was surprised to find John Yeh in command. Yeh had run the ship for years after the Vladivostok adventure, but the Lady Roberts was old and he had graduated after the war to a newer ship.
‘I thought you might be glad of someone who knew his way around,’ he said, his face as expressionless as always. ‘Nationalist warships are at the entrance to the river and turning ships back. Gemelta only just got through. The blockade’s going to make it difficult to leave, but I’ve been in and out of this river all my life – even as a smuggler in the old days. I know every trick of the tide. There’s just one snag. We need coal.’
A visit to the Kuomintang headquarters confirmed Yeh’s fears. No ship was to be allowed to depart from the Yangtze.
‘The British Navy has been involved in too many incidents,’ the Nationalist officer in command informed Willie. ‘We have therefore had no option, since British warships are waiting outside the Yangtze to aid British merchantmen, but to make sure they stay on this side of the rivermouth. No ship will leave without permission.’
‘And how do I get this permission?’ Willie asked.
The Nationalist officer smiled. ‘It will be very difficult,’ he admitted.
It didn’t take long to find out that what he’d said was correct, and within days the blockade began to pose a problem. The city had always depended on its maritime trade, but now it was impossible to bring in the raw materials it needed for its factories – coal, oil, spare parts for machinery – just as it was impossible to take out finished products. The Lady Roberts had brought in a varied cargo of machinery and was due to take away every imaginable thing that was available, from silk to ham, and vegetables to processed duck. With the blockade, the goods were already starting to rot in the warehouses.
Still London made no protest over the attack on the Amethyst and, as the Communists drew nearer the city and people began to realise there might be danger after all, the demands for berths at Sarth’s, Butterfield and Swire’s and Glen Lines suddenly increased, and Da Braga, who had never considered himself a brave man, finally decided to sell out to George Kee.
‘Goa,’ he said, slapping the brandy bottle on the desk. ‘Where I came from. My children are grown and there’s only my wife and me now.’
‘Why not Australia, Luis?’ Willie tried. ‘You’re far from being a poor man and there’s more for you in Australia than in India since independence. Besides, old son–’ he grinned ‘–we’ve known each other a long time now and it wouldn’t be the same without you around.’
Da Braga’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I’m a sentimental man,’ he admitted. ‘I didn’t wish to be in the way but I, too, would like to go on meeting you. We’ve had many a drink to celebrate success or to console us in disaster and I would like it to continue. I’ll be ready when you call me.’
In May, with nothing further heard of the Amethyst, Nationalist troops, demoralised by defeat, began to pour into the city, carrying pots, pans, vegetables, even firewood, filling the cinemas and tying up the streetcars for hours as they demanded free rides. Since the war they had suffered from a dreadful reputation, because most of them now were simple young peasants plucked unwillingly from their villages to fill the gaps in Chiang’s armies and abominably treated, with wretched pay and worse rations, and they had always stolen, begged and looted to stay alive. Now they saw no difference between Shanghai and a village in the country, and when refused anything, didn’t hesitate to use their weapons.
Others, many in rags, some on crutches, their arms in slings, their heads bandaged, fought their way on to trains leaving the city and crowded the jetties for southbound ships. By a strange turn of events, the European businessmen began to pray for the arrival of the Communist Liberation Army with its well-known discipline.
Shanghai was already beginning to look like a battleground, with showcases and shop windows boarded up against looters, the latest Paris creations seen only behind closed doors. Sandbags were going up and ditches were being dug in parks and private gardens and, while the Nationalist communiqué’s gave stirring stories of victory after victory, the only result that could be seen was an increased anxiety among the Nationalist soldiers. Even the night life had come to a halt as ballrooms and nightclubs were commandeered as barracks. When the hostesses complained, half a dozen of them were whisked away for an indefinite stay in jail and the protests died at once.
With the arrival of the retreating Nationalists, it was obvious that the battle for Shanghai could not now be far off. Still nothing had been heard of the Amethyst, and Willie learned that the Communists, eager to claim a propaganda victory, were refusing to grant her safe passage unless the British admitted responsibility for the incident.
Still haunting the Nationalist commander’s headquarters for permission for the Lady Roberts to leave, he learned from George Kee that the post office was still accepting parcels and letters but that they were being held up by the blockade. Making enquiries, he found that this was true. Occasionally a ship was given permission to leave with mail, but at the moment there was nothing suitable in the river, while mountains of mailbags waited to be removed. Knowing he hadn’t seen a mail steamer in the river for some time, he made a suggestion.
‘Suppose I can get permission for my ship to leave,’ he said, ‘would you allow me to take the mail out for you?’
‘Of course,’ the Chinese official told him. ‘We’re putting it on any ship that’s allowed to go.’
‘Where would I get permission?’
‘From the Kuomintang?’
Willie had already tried that and been refused, but he accepted that the situation required some guile.
‘Would the word of the Generalissimo himself be good enough?’ he asked.
Worried by the imminent fall of Shanghai, Chiang had moved the seat of his government to Canton, but it was still possible to reach the southern capital by a roundabout route. The railway went to Nanking and Wuhu and permission to travel by rail through the interior was still possible. After Wuhu, it would mean going by river to Hankow, from where you could take another train to Canton.
For safety, Willie informed Da Braga and George Kee what he was about to do and was on the point of leaving when Edward arrived. He was in civilian clothes but as buoyant as ever.
‘Fancy a rear-admiral on the staff of Sarth’s, Father?’ he asked.
‘Who?’
‘Me. I’ve just had a step up in rank, but I’m due to retire soon and at the moment I’m working out my time at the Admiralty. Because nobody else could be spared and they need someone here with a bit of punch, they flew me in. I’m getting married.’
Willie stared at his son. ‘Left it a bit late, haven’t you?’ he said.
Edward smiled, that superior smile all naval officers seemed to acquire. ‘Oh, there’s life in the old dog yet. You’ll approve. Good family. Pretty face. Bags of brains. Wren officer. She’s my secretary at the Admiralty. Name of Wyatt. Philippa Wyatt. Knows of you, because she’s some sort of relation to that chap who did business with you in London. Brassard, wasn’t it? That’s how we sort of got together.’
Willie studied his son. Edward was good-looking, tall and strong with greying hair. ‘Pity you didn’t get on with it earlier,’ he said.
Edward shrugged. He admired his father and was quite willing to accept criticism from him. ‘The war got in the way a bit,’ he admitted. ‘I’m thinking of bringing her out here to meet the family. The RAF wo
uld fly her out.’
‘I don’t recommend it,’ Willie said grimly. ‘I don’t recommend bringing anybody out here just now. Things are a bit too dicey. Anyway, why are you in mufti? I’d have enjoyed swanking round the place – such as it is now – with an admiral in uniform.’
Edward smiled again. ‘Well,’ he admitted, ‘things are a bit difficult, as you’ve just said. As you probably know, the Navy’s moved down to Woosung for safety, but they need someone senior here to keep an eye on things. Uniforms are out, though, and my passport – specially prepared – indicates that I’m part of the Consulate staff. Guessing you’d know more about what’s going on than anybody, I thought I’d call and see you before I report.’
Willie rounded on him angrily. ‘What are those bloody fools in London up to?’ he demanded. ‘Aren’t they aware that around ninety men are stuck up the river in the Amethyst? Why the hell don’t they apologise and get them out?’
‘It wasn’t the Navy’s fault, Father,’ Edward snapped back with all the self-righteousness of a senior naval officer whose service is demeaned.
‘I didn’t mean the Navy, dammit! I mean the bloody politicians. I suppose they’re sitting on their backsides in the House of Commons, enjoying the sound of their own voices and totally indifferent to the fact that British subjects are prisoners.’
Edward smiled. ‘Oh, that lot,’ he said. ‘We needn’t expect anything from them. If Amethyst’s coming out, she’ll have to do it on her own. On the other hand, from what I can see, the whole bloody business has become stalemated. Where is Amethyst? I expect you know.’
‘She moved downriver but she’s still held. Chap called Kerans, one of your people – commander, I think – has taken over up there, but the Communists won’t be backing down. They acknowledge no authority but their own. They aren’t Chiang, Eddie, kow-towing to foreign powers. They even refuse to speak anything but Chinese, which makes it a bit difficult for some of the British because, of course, half the silly buggers out here have never learned any more Chinese than they need to ask for a drink. There’s nothing you can do, old son. Gunboat diplomacy’s come to an end.’
Edward digested the news with a wry expression. ‘Perhaps I’d better simply go and get drunk at Tom’s then.’
‘I think it’s a good idea. I’d join you, in fact, except that I’m busy just now.’
Edward grinned. ‘I thought you looked as though you were up to something.’
The journey south was wearying and it occurred to Willie that once upon a time he would have taken it in his stride. I’m growing old, he decided. Too old for this lark, anyway. It’s time I retired and let other people run the show.
The train to Wuhu was crowded, the compartments stuffed with luggage. The steamer up the Yangtze was no better, and the train from Hankow to Canton was worst of all. Dozens of people were fleeing south, either because they had worked in some small way for Chiang and feared reprisals when the Communists arrived, or because they had decided it would be better to set up a new life in the British colony of Hong Kong. It was impossible to sleep, and by the time Willie arrived in Canton he was feeling twice his age.
Chiang’s personal headquarters were in a large house outside the city. Taking a cab there, Willie spent half an hour arguing with the guard commander at the gate before a more senior officer was called and he was allowed into an anteroom to plead his case.
‘The Generalissimo won’t see you,’ he was told. ‘He’s a busy man.’
‘I thought the Generalissimo liked to remember old comrades of the fighting.’
‘The Generalissimo never forgets his old friends.’
‘Then tell him I’m one. Tell him I was with him in Chungking and that I spent a year behind the Japanese lines on his behalf.’
It wasn’t entirely true because Mallinson’s project had been less for Chiang than against him, but that had been the excuse given at the time.
The officer agreed to put Willie’s case and after another half-hour’s wait, he reappeared and beckoned Willie to follow him. Chiang looked older, but as small, neat and slim as ever in his immaculate uniform, his pate shaved now to hide the grey hairs. As Willie appeared, he nodded unsmilingly and a tray was offered containing a cup of coffee.
‘What is your request?’ one of the aides asked in English.
Willie answered in Chinese so that Chiang could understand. ‘I wish to move my ship, the Lady Roberts, from Shanghai to Australia,’ he pointed out.
‘There is a blockade in force.’
‘Ships are being allowed to leave provided they’re carrying mail. At the moment, there are mountains of it waiting to go but no ship. Mine is available. Besides, the Generalissimo owes me a favour.’
Several sets of eyes switched to Chiang, who put down his cup before speaking.
‘What is this favour I owe?’ he asked.
‘Twenty-two years ago I loaned you my launch,’ Willie said. ‘Your own wouldn’t work and I was hesitant to lend you mine until you told me it would be paid for. Perhaps the Generalissimo doesn’t remember, but I do. It was never paid for and when I protested I found myself looking down the muzzle of a rifle held by one of the Generalissimo’s sailors.’
Chiang stared at Willie impassively and totally without expression for a long time. Come on, you bugger, Willie was muttering under his breath. Say something for a change.
Eventually Chiang spoke to the English-speaking aide, then turned abruptly and left the room. Willie stared after him, his heart sinking, but the aide stepped forward.
‘The Generalissimo remembers the incident,’ he said. ‘He very much regrets that you were never paid for your trouble and he asks if you will feel recompensed if he gives you a permit for your ship to leave. It will last for two months, which should be long enough. After that it will have to be renewed.’
Willie could have kissed him and very nearly did.
The journey north was easier because few people seemed eager to go to what was rapidly becoming Communist China. It was tiring, nevertheless, but Willie was buoyed up now by the sheet of paper in his pocket.
He arrived in Shanghai just as the Communists started their move towards the city. He had telegraphed ahead and Thomas met him at the station with his car.
‘They’re on their way, Father,’ he announced. ‘They’ve not only crossed at Kiang Yin, they’ve also crossed near Nanking, and I don’t think Chiang’s going to stop them. They learned too much from the Japanese during the war. They’ll decide to be here by a certain date and you can bet your last Hong Kong dollar they’ll make it.’
‘Thanks for the tip, son.’
‘There’s just one other thing, Father. It seems the Amethyst’s now behind the Communist lines.’
The first clap of gunfire came the day the Country Club opened its grass courts for the season and served strawberries and cream for dinner. The occasion was well attended, everybody formally dressed for the affair, so that Willie was forcibly reminded of the dancing at the Raffles Hotel during the last days of Singapore.
There wasn’t a single British warship at Shanghai now, and by this time the oil depots six miles away were ablaze. Everybody knew that if Mao gained control of Pootung his guns could fire across the river against the magnificent blocks of the bund, and a few more of those still left in the city made arrangements to be evacuated by air.
When the Nationalists mounted a colossal victory parade, Willie hooted with laughter. ‘Pure propaganda,’ he said. ‘The buggers are preparing for the end.’
As the Communists pounded away at the suburbs, the streets were decked with flags and military bands blared out. A traditional dragon writhed through the streets and children sang patriotic songs. The battle lasted for two days, but the Europeans were affected by little more than stray bullets, and were able to watch a lot of the fighting from their office windows high in the blocks on the bund. Through the whole period Willie slept in Kee’s office at Shanghai Traders. Fires were still burning furiously at Woosung
and the approaches to the docks looked like a Chinese Dunkirk with a two-mile-long column of tanks, artillery, ammunition wagons and trucks, all abandoned and set on fire.
Then he learned that the Mayor, the Chief of Police and the garrison commander had disappeared, but not before helping themselves to what remained of the municipal funds, and, at the end of four days of skirmishing and sporadic firing, it was all over.
‘The whole bloody thing was prearranged,’ Willie growled at Kee. ‘They, put up just enough resistance to let them get clear. They haven’t lost the art of fighting their battles with silver bullets.’
Now the Nationalists had gone, the streets began to fill with different soldiers and different trucks. The newcomers, often tall raw-boned men from the north with none of the old signs of deference to the Europeans, were armed with modern weapons and handled their tommy guns with confidence. Anti-Communist graffiti and posters were hastily scraped off shop windows and walls and the bunting and banners and photographs of Chiang which had been put up under orders a few days before were hurriedly removed. Almost immediately, the city returned to normality and coolies began to pull down the pill box they had erected near the Shanghai Traders’ office and repair the streets and gardens. Within twenty-four hours the first vandals had been arrested, the rickshaw coolies had become suddenly strangely polite to each other, the police had become courteous, and it had become impossible to offer either a bribe or a tip. European shops, restaurants, offices and hotels remained untouched, however, and it was only too easy to feel nothing had changed. Even the Balalaika was open again, still frequented by Europeans, and when the police, now under Communist control, came to see Willie, informing him that they had received information that he had been in contact with Chiang K’Ai-Shek, it dawned on him that Zychov was back, too. He must have seen Willie at Chiang’s headquarters and, never forgetting the old feud, had taken the precaution of silencing his enemy ahead by informing the Communists of his visit.