“All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures great and small”
with every appearance of pleasure. It was, for me, a most unhappy experience for I have ever been a lover of music.
At the very moment that the hymn finished – the men had derived great comfort from it and, who knows, perhaps a tone-deaf God in an English heaven may have been relishing it, too – the First and Second Mates tramped aft, each carrying a cloth bundle.
“Searched forrard, Sir,” bawled Lubbock; “found one flint-lock, one cap-fire and three Bulldog pistols, several spring-loaded knives, three filthy books (one illustrated), eight flat and three square-face bottles of spirit-liquor and one copy of The Seaman’s Friend by Dana.”
The Captain’s visage took on a most convincing expression of sorrow and disgust. He raised his head to the heavens.
“Oh Lord,” he roared, “look down in mercy, we implore Thee, upon our erring brethren – chuck it all over the side, Mr Mate – and help us to shew them the paths of Thy witness – yes, chuck the liquor over too, Mister – and guide their steps to Thine ineffable salvation – hold your tongues, you dogs! – Amen. I said AMEN!” he added in a voice of thunder.
“Amen,” mumbled the crew, not too surlily.
“As to those of you who have broken the Laws of God and the Ship’s Articles by bringing aboard these devil’s toys, you are pardoned, like sheep who have gone astray.” There was a gentle susurrus of relief. “All but one: the accursed sea-lawyer who owned the vile Seaman’s Friend by Dana, that primer for mutineers; he signed, as you all did, a declaration that he would be bound by King’s-ship discipline. I sentence him to a dozen with the cat but this sentence will only be carried out when next he errs. Only the First Mate and I shall know his name and there will be no victimisation – make a note, Mister Mate, if you please – but if I hear a breath of sedition from the forecastle the man will feel the sword of the Lord and of Gideon about his shoulders.” There was a long pause. I was not facing the men but I could hear the slight shuffling sound of their bare feet.
“Dismissed!” cried the Captain at last.
“Get forrard!” bellowed the mate.
They got – suddenly no longer surly nor Godly but laughing and skylarking and cheerily kicking the bums of those of their comrades whose contraband had been sequestered. Well could I see how Britannia might rule the waves for ever and that Britons never shall be slaves.
The Second Mate and I were to dine with the Captain and Mrs Knatchbull – whom I was not to call Blanche – and I presented myself at the cabin promptly at six bells of the second watch; that is three o’clock in the afternoon. This seemed unconscionably late to me but amongst Englishmen it is a matter of dignity: the later you dine, the more genteel. As I write, half a century after these things occurred, some fashionable idiots are dining as late as six o’clock in the evening and supping after the theatre by candle-light, like Spaniards. The English are quite mad, from the lowest to the highest, but I think they will conquer the world for they are the only folk (excepting the brash Americans who do not count) who know that they are right in all things. For my part, I like them, except the few clever ones.
Dinner was very good, there was a sucking pig. I had never eaten pig before and – not because the Captain was watching me narrowly – I ate copiously of it, for I am not a religious man. It was entertaining, too, to watch the Second Mate gaping at Blanche Knatchbull’s bosom as she leaned over her plate across the table from him. I sympathised; indeed, I stole a glance myself from time to time. Her nipples were of an intense terra-cotta colour and large, large. After dinner, at the Captain’s request, she favoured us with a song. It was called “Sweet Afton”. She had a splendid, rich contralto voice, exactly one semi-tone flat. The young pork in my stomach would have curdled had I not been entranced by the charming way she had of filling her lungs from time to time, for her gown was flimsy for so robust a young woman. All too soon the Captain apologised for keeping us from our duties, fishing out his great golden chronometer. As we closed the cabin door, with many a thank and bow, we heard him say, “Be ready in four and one half minutes, Blanche.” No doubt the beauty of the song had inflamed his animal passions. He was a strange man. For my part, I strode the deck for a while, admiring the often-described patterns of the scend of the sea, as well as the various kinds of blue which the sky exhibited, until I was cool enough to go below, or “downstairs” as a landlobble would say. In my bunk I began to read a book of verses by three people called Bell – one of them was called Acton, I forget the others – which had appeared in the bookseller’s just before I set out on my travels. It was abominable rubbish; a trio of thwarted virgin ladies could have written it. With their unemployed left hands.
I snoozed over this trash until awakened by Peter coming off watch and telling me that we were under all plain sail and on the larboard tack, making best use of light airs from the south-west.
“Does this mean anything?” I asked querulously. He smiled amiably.
“No, not really. What I should have said is, we’re going along the English Channel – you’ve heard of that, I’m sure? – but the wind isn’t quite behind us, so we’re sort of pointing at the South coast of England for the time being.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“It isn’t a bad thing,” he said. “We’re getting along, d’you see, but in a sort of zig-zag fashion.”
“I understand you perfectly,” I lied, “but, more to the point, will there be anything for supper?” He must have heard footsteps for he flung open our cabin door dramatically and waved in the boy Orace, who was clutching a napkin-ful of hot bread under his left arm and carrying a mess-kid full of something wonderfully savoury-smelling in his right hand. As he laid out the forks and spoons I questioned the child, as a good master should.
“Have you eaten, Orace?”
“Oh, yes, indeed, Sir. I helped the doctor for two or three hours this afternoon, peeling roots and such, and he has been most generous, giving me roasted gobbets of meat, little patties and other good things. I am quite full to the brim, Sir.”
“Good,” I said, gruffly and not without a tincture of jealousy. “But, pray, what is this mess?”
“Sir, the Doctor calls it Kari: it is a stew much liked in the Indies, he says. Pieces of mutton simmered along with rare, hot spices. There is a pot of rice underneath: you must put some of this on your plate along with the Kari but, when the Kari stings your mouth, on no account must you drink water, the Doctor says, for this will worsen the stinging.”
“Get out,” I said.
This rare, fiery dish was good. At first I was alarmed when the sweat burst out of my scalp and my teeth seemed to be loosening, but Peter, who had eaten it before, laughed merrily and told me to be of good cheer: the only evil effect might be a certain flux of the bowels next morning. As I ate, the ferocity of the spices seemed to lessen and all sorts of subtle flavours made themselves manifest. It was – is – a wonderful dish and there are many forms of it, as I learned later. (You, my grandchildren, may scoff when I say that a man might do very well if he opened an eating-house in London itself offering such exotic stews; but give the matter some thought. This suggestion may be the only legacy you will receive.)
We seemed to spend an unconscionably long time in the English Channel (I call it that because I am writing in the English language, to my best ability, and because the English have more ships of war than the French); at one time we had to cast anchor or heave-to in the shelter of the lee of an island called Wight, because the wind had veered further into the west and was now what Peter called “dead foul” for our voyage.
“Dead foul?” I asked, alarmed, for the phrase seemed an ill-omened one.
“Cheer up, Karli,” he laughed, “That’s just a sailor’s term meaning it’s blowing exactly from where we’d like to sail. It’s not worth tacking long boards in the Channel, the Captain’s decided we may as well wait for the wind to change; there’s
lots of things for the men to do meantime.”
There were indeed lots to do. The sailmaker was given some handy old seamen to help him overhaul the sail-locker and to make a start on some new-fangled studding-sails; the carpenter and his mates were to make a huge ballast-box which would be lashed to the deck, full of pig-iron, and moved from port to starboard when the ship needed trimming (the Captain, meanwhile, was forever being rowed around and about the ship, squinting and glaring at her trim); I was, without being ordered so to do, peering at the trim of the Captain’s wife while pretending to check the comprador’s accounts and manifests – a hopeless task, I realised at once (the accounts, naturally) because I could tell that he was my master. A simple, gently-nurtured Jew of Holland is but a child when confronted with an experienced half-Asian comprador. I wasted no time on trying to find his small deceits – I sleep more easily without a knife between my ribs. I had already, quite against my will, earned his grave dislike when the Captain, seeking for light tasks with which I might earn my supernumerary officer’s status, had ordered me to take over the keys of the slop-chest from the comprador. The slop-chest was in fact a small room or lazarette ’tween-decks, from which, under my eagle eye, a bosun’s-mate (whom they jokingly called the “pusser”) dispensed shirts, canvas trowsers, kerchiefs, chunks of pigtail-twist tobacco, soap, lucifer matches, bandages and other comforts such as tiny packages of tea, coffee and sugar; all set against the sailors’ pay-warrants. The slop-chest did but little business so early in the voyage, for all of those tarry-breeks who could afford to do so had stocked up with such things before they came aboard, but I was shocked at the prices – and I am not one who is easily shocked at prices, as many people know to their cost. Being young and fearless, I sought an interview with the Captain – this also gave me an opportunity to eye Blanche, who seemed never wholly to close the door to her sleeping-cabin, nor ever to be more than thinly-clad during her flittings to and fro across the aperture.
The Captain listened with a face difficult to read whilst I made my case against the exploitation of his sailor-folk. My eloquence was, I need not say, marred from time to time by the fleeting apparition of Blanche across the half-opened door. When I had finished he sat for some minutes with his bearded chin sunk upon his breast. I waited respectfully, hoping that he had not fallen asleep. At last he broke silence, gave judgment.
“No piss-quick, Mr Van Cleef,” he said, “that’s an indulgence I only allow myself in port. But you’ll take a glass of schnapps with me.” It was not a question. The schnapps was good and fiery, fiery.
“Now, Mr Van Cleef,” he said, “in the ordinary way I would rebuke you for bringing into question the running of the ship, every particle of which is my responsibility and under my ceaseless surveillance. Every splinter and thread of it. Nothing escapes me.”
“Aye aye, Sir,” I replied stoutly, wondering whether his words or my sailor-like response were the more absurd.
“On the other hand,” he went on, tucking his hands behind the tails of his coat and commencing to pace both up and down the stateroom, “on the other hand you have, as an officer, an obligation, nay a duty, to bring to my attention any venalities and tergiversations on the part of your subordinates, have you not?”
“Aye aye, Sir,” I said, but his glare told me that this was, for once, the wrong thing to say. I tried “Indeed, Sir”, which seemed more palatable.
“You will therefore ascertain from the comprador,” he went on, resuming his pacing, “the exact cost price of all articles in the slop-chest. From this you will deduct ten per centum, which will be pretty well the extent to which the comprador will have lied to you.” He seemed splendidly unaware of the comprador’s presence at that very moment, refilling our schnapps glasses. “You will then add twenty per centum to the corrected cost-figure to allow for spoilage and handling and so forth. This will be the price at which the ship’s people will buy the goods. Is that clear?” Blanche’s charming form was passing and re-passing the half-opened door to the sleeping cabin; she seemed to be clad in black stockings and a petticoat of pale-green gossamer. A phrase sprang usefully to mind.
“Abundantly, Sir,” I said.
The wind remained foul and there was much to do, so we tarried another while in the bay or bight of Sandown. It rained very much as it always does near that Isle when the wind comes from the south-west. The common sailor-folk were too busy to be allowed to go ashore – indeed, they were still recovering from having been ashore before joining the ship – but we officers were told that we might take a quarter-boat to Bonchurch. Lubbock and the Second and Lord Stevenage were eager to sample the delights of the little town; I hung back, offering to look after the ship in their absence. My deeper, chivalrous reason was the thought that the Captain, too, might go ashore, leaving Blanche unprotected except for me. In the event, it was Blanche who, at the last moment, decided on a jaunt to the shore, leaving me alone with Captain Knatchbull. I strode the deck moodily, gazing at the feeble lights of land and wondering when next I would have such another opportunity to throw away. Orace found me and gave me “the Captain’s compliments and he’d esteem it a favour if you’d sup with him and play after.”
“Play after?” I asked, concealing my terror.
“Sir, yes Sir, those were his very words. He will have meant a game of chance or skill, will he not, Sir?”
“To be sure,” I said. “To be sure.”
Supper was simple but wholesome: only some ham, some pressed silverside of beef, half of a handsome game-pie, a salad of warm, vinegary slices of potatoes and watercress, a savoury morsel of toast with a strange thing upon it which looked like a cat’s turd but tasted delicious, and some of the wonderfully smelly Stilton cheese which I had learned to love. I ate well; the Captain beamed upon me.
“You play backgammon, of course?” he said. I was at a loss and mumbled that I had never heard of it but was keen to learn. When the Chinese boy brought the board in I recognised it instantly: it was the game which we call tric-trac in the Netherlands, every idle, shiftless, loafing wastrel plays it incessantly in our taverns. I was very good at it indeed, as you can imagine.
“Sir,” I said, “I now realise that I know this game a little, it was the English name which confused me.”
“Good,” he said, eying me narrowly, “I was beginning to fear that you were one of those fellows who ask to be taught a game then, having won because of the indulgence of their opponent, puts his success down to ‘beginner’s luck’ while he pockets the guineas.”
I drew myself up angrily. “Sir!” I said, for he had described the behaviour of a schnorrer, “Sir, I shall not …” He raised a hand and spoke in the friendliest fashion.
“Calm yourself, young man, I spoke provocatively to unsettle your nerves, so that you would play badly, which makes me as venal as I thought you, does it not?” I knew not what to say. “Moreover, Mr Van Cleef, pray remember that no officer may challenge the master of a ship on a point of honour – if that were permitted promotion would be too rapid and too chancy.” He laughed shrilly, as though at some memory, then collected himself. “Perhaps,” he added, soberly and, it seemed to me a little slyly, “I also made that last remark to add to your confusion, eh? Eh?”
Confused I was, and angry, but my head was clear enough to decide that it would be prudent to let the Captain win. The stakes he named were trifling, you see, and it seemed to me clear that he loved to win, since he prepared the ground so thoroughly. This art of winning games without cheating will one day be erected into a science, depend upon it. To the English, bloody war is a game but a game is bloody war.
In the event I had no need to let him win: the dice fell foul for me again and again, while for him they seemed anxious to please. Even he admitted that Lady Luck had smiled upon him and he agreed to doubling the small stakes so that my revenge might be sweetened. This next game, try as I might, I could not lose; everything fell right for me and he glared suspiciously at every clumsy move I made. I wo
n. As a concession to my youth and poverty we had not been using the big doubling-die but now it was brought out.
From then on I fell upon evil times; try as I might I could make no headway against the cunning Captain and the malevolent dice. Every blot of mine was hit; I could re-enter not one of my stones from the bar; he blocked me, made primes again and again and, in the last game, shut me out utterly.
When it came to the reckoning I was shocked at how much I had lost: it took all my aplomb to crank onto my face the careless smile of the English milord who has lost a country estate on a hand of écarté.
“You play a capital game of backgammon, Mr Van Cleef,” he said, clapping the board shut. “I trust you will indulge me in this innocent pastime again. And here, I fancy, is my dear spouse, refreshed with such innocent dissipations as the town of Bonchurch has had to offer.” Sure enough, Blanche entered, throwing off her boat-cloak, smoothing her rumpled hair and astonishing me with a smile so unguardedly amorous, yet so enigmatic, that I stumbled as I rose, then stumbled worse over my polite goodnights.
All the Tea in China Page 11