Halfhyde on the Yangtze

by Philip McCutchan

  “Yes, sir?”

  “What do you suggest now?”

  “I suggest you ask to speak to the British Consul, sir, as a start.”

  “Yes, I thought that too. Demand, not ask, why be puny? Faint hearts made no empires, Mr Halfhyde. Mr Bodmin?”

  “Ar, zur?”

  “Tell the dagoes in Chinese that I demand to speak at once to the British Consul.”

  Bodmin pointed upwards. “’E be there, zur, at the window like. Why not just yell, zur?”

  “Just yell?” Captain Watkiss stared. “Just yell, like a common seaman? It’s scarcely dignified, is it? I think you’re impertinent, Mr Bodmin…yet on the other hand…”

  “Ar, zur?”

  “On the other hand, why bother with the blasted dagoes?” Watkiss pondered. “Which is the Consul—the bald man with the eyeglasses?”

  “No, zur, that be parson.”

  “Well, which, then, for God’s sake?”

  “The thin gentleman, zur, the one with red ’air and a beard, zur, and riding boots.”

  “Riding boots?”

  “’E always wears riding boots, zur.”

  Watkiss clicked his tongue. “Oh, bugger his boots, they can’t be seen from here anyway, can they? Put me in touch with him, Mr Bodmin.”

  “Zur?”

  “You don’t expect me to yell at a complete stranger, do you? Put me in touch, tell him who I am. Then I’ll talk.”

  “Aye, aye, zur.” Bodmin lifted his voice. “Mr Carstairs, zur, I be ’ere with Cap’n Watkiss o’ the Royal Navy, zur. Cap’n Watkiss, ’e do wish to speak to ee, zur.”

  From the window a hand waved in acknowledgement and the red beard seemed to wag. A cultured voice floated down: “Thank God!”

  “I don’t know about God,” Watkiss muttered angrily. Then he became aware of one of his officers, who was making an attempt to address him. He turned. “Yes, Lord Edward, what is it?”

  “I say, sir! It’s awfully curious, you know, but—”

  “Kindly be more precise, Lord Edward.”

  “Sorry, sir. It’s a most extraordinary coincidence, but isn’t that Mr Carstairs up there at the window?”

  “Yes!”

  “Well, I was at prep school with one of his sons, sir. Awfully good chap, sir—Stinky Carstairs. I met his pater once in Eastbourne.”

  “Really.”

  “Yes, sir. Awfully funny coincidence…all this way from Eastbourne, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, very. Well?”

  Lord Edward gave a big smile and shifted his feet. “Well, sir, I can speak to him for you if you like.”

  “Why should I like? He’s not a blasted Chinese, is he?”

  “Oh, no, sir, certainly not, they’re an awfully good family—”

  “Hold your tongue, Lord Edward, damn you, and don’t waste my time.”

  “Awfully sorry, sir. It was just an idea. I thought if you had anything to say that you didn’t want the Chinese to overhear, you see—I mean, it’s awfully possible, isn’t it, that some of them speak English, or anyway pidgin—”

  “Yes.” Captain Watkiss was growing angry even though Lord Edward Cole was of the aristocracy and must be tolerated further than most officers of his junior rank. “What the devil are you talking about, may I ask?”

  “Latin, sir,” Lord Edward said cheerfully.

  “Latin? Latin my arse, Lord Edward, don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Not ridiculous, sir. Mr Carstairs is a Latin scholar, you see. Stinky became one too as a matter of fact.”

  “Did he really? And you, Lord Edward?”

  “A smattering, sir,” Lord Edward said modestly. “Rather more, actually. It was wasted aboard the Britannia, of course, but—”

  “But now you’ve found a use for it. Smart thinking, Lord Edward, and I shall so inform the Admiralty from Hong Kong upon my return.” Captain Watkiss laid a friendly hand on Lord Edward’s arm. “You shall shout to Mr Carstairs, in Latin, that I have four, no, God damn that fool Beauchamp, three river gunboats in the port, and that the moment I secure his release and that of his companions, we shall return aboard my flotilla and stand by to sail for Shanghai. You shall add that speed is vital since the blasted Russians are believed to be about to enter the Yangtze—” Watkiss broke off as someone came round from behind to confront him. “Yes, Mr Bloementhal, what is it, I’d forgotten you’d come with us. Make it brief.”

  “I’ll make it brief, all right,” Bloementhal said, sounding truculent. “The information about the Russians is secret and is not to be yelled out for all and sundry to hear.” He turned to Hackenticker. “Is that not right, Admiral?”

  “Right! As I was about to tell Captain Watkiss.”

  “Not right at all,” Watkiss snapped, and went on obscurely. “If either of you think the damn dagoes speak Latin, you’ve never been to an English preparatory school, or public school come to that. Lord Edward will do precisely as I tell him, and that’s fact, I said it.”

  “Now look here—”

  “Hold your tongue, Mr Bloementhal, and don’t interfere with the execution of my duty or I shall make a special report upon you to the Admiralty, who will forward it to the White House. Now, Lord Edward. You shall add that my strategy is to be as follows…Mr Halfhyde?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “A discussion, if you please, as to my strategy.” Captain Watkiss brought up his monocle and placed it in his eye. “Lord Edward, be so good as to shout in Latin to Mr Carstairs that I am in conference and will contact him shortly.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Lord Edward Cole’s aristocratic tones swept over the heads of the waiting Chinese mob towards the British Consul, merging from his introductory English, in which he spoke of Stinky and an establishment called St Donat’s Academy, into Latin of weird construction.

  Meanwhile, Captain Watkiss conferred with Halfhyde, joined against Watkiss’ intentions by Rear Admiral Hackenticker and Bloementhal. The latter especially riled Watkiss; Hackenticker was, after all, a seaman and within limits they spoke the same language. Watkiss detested all diplomats and never mind their nationality, they were a spurious lot, and slimy. Never honest, never open, dreadful upstarts, cads and bounders, quite impossible. There was a good deal of argument about the strategy to be adopted, and Bloementhal kept on shoving in his blasted diplomatic oar and vetoing, as it seemed, everything Watkiss proposed, saying it would lead to a confrontation and that it was the civil power, and not the military or naval, that was charged with the duty of conducting affairs between nations. In the end it was Rear Admiral Hackenticker who rounded upon his own countryman.

  “Heck,” he said, “you’re beginning to sound like a one-man State Department. Hear this, Mr Bloementhal: right now this is a military situation that has gone way beyond diplomacy, and if we don’t handle it right we’re all likely to end up with our heads cut off and stuck up on those poles you see in Peking. Now, what I suggest is this: we allow Captain Watkiss here to shout at Carstairs, just the first part of his message. The strategy to be shouted later when decided upon. How’s that for a start, gentlemen?”

  Captain Watkiss, who did not like being allowed to do something by anyone, let alone an American, reacted badly to begin with and hot words rose to his lips; but he forced himself to retain them unsaid. The Queen, in the dangerous circumstances, would expect no less. Ignoring Hackenticker and Bloementhal, he spoke again to Halfhyde.

  “Mr Halfhyde, in the past you have not been short of ideas and stratagems. Can you not produce one now, for God’s sake?”

  “Nothing very dramatic, I’m afraid, sir. The situation is against us and I can only repeat my earlier advice: ask—”

  “Demand.”

  “Demand, then, to speak to the Consul—privately.”

  “Yes, yes. We’ve been into that, have we not? I—”

  “With respect, sir, it would be more practical, really, to make your demand to the Chinese.”

  “Why?”

  Halfhyde said patie
ntly, “Mr Cole’s Latin may well prove inadequate. The situation has gone beyond the campaigns of Hannibal and forte buses in aro.”

  “Suppose the buggers refuse my demands, Mr Halfhyde? What then?”

  “Then they’ll perhaps put themselves out of court to Mr Bloementhal’s satisfaction, and we can fight.” Halfhyde caught Hackenticker’s eye, and the American nodded his agreement. “I believe we can fight through into the Consulate, sir, if we take the Chinese by surprise with a sudden burst of rifle fire followed by a bayonet charge.”

  “Yes.” Watkiss lifted his head and scratched beneath his chin. “I can find no fault with that, Mr Halfhyde. I wonder what Mr Bloementhal has to say? No, I wouldn’t bother to say it, Mr Bloementhal, since my mind’s made up and I consider it my duty to enter the blasted Consulate—yours, too, since I understood your damn authorization chit to board the Cockroach said you were under orders to contact a certain person inside the Consulate. And what about that damn Hun—hey?”

  Bloementhal answered surlily, “What about him?”

  “You spoke of jiggery-pokery—but perhaps that can wait, so never mind.” Captain Watkiss waved his sword. “Mr Halfhyde, circulate discreetly among the petty officers and warn them to be ready for action. Lord Edward, you may withhold your Latin for the time being. Mr Bodmin, you will put me in touch immediately with the Chinese leader. Which is he, do you suppose?”

  “That be him, zur.” Mr Bodmin pointed to a squat man with a curiously bulbous face, no hair and no ears, who was standing atop a pile of rubble to the left of the entry to the Consulate. “Lim Puk-Fo, zur.”

  “What happened to his ears, Mr Bodmin?”

  “Ar, zur, they do say ’e be like that from birth, zur, but I dunno—”

  “Well, never mind, speak to him.”

  “Aye, aye, zur. What do I say like?”

  “Captain Watkiss of Her Britannic Majesty’s Navy wishes to talk to the British Consul.” Watkiss paused. “One moment, Mr Bodmin. I must know to whom I speak. What is Lim Puk-Fo’s standing? He’s not in uniform like the last bugger I spoke to.”

  “No, zur. ’E be a civilian—”

  “Bandit.”

  “Ar, zur, civilian bandit like. They be powerful people, they bandits, zur, uniforms or not. China, zur, ’tain’t like Devonport—”

  “Yes, yes, I’m aware of that, thank you, Mr Bodmin, just get on with it.”

  Bodmin turned towards Lim Puk-Fo and cupped gnarled hands around his mouth. As he began to speak in Chinese the weather changed with the most astonishing rapidity; the few raindrops that had struck Halfhyde prior to disembarkation from the Cockroach, and had thereafter ceased, came back again, this time in sudden drenching fury: the smoke lying over the city had obscured the sky’s increasing overcast and now the heavens opened without warning. Rain such as Captain Watkiss had never seen even upon the west coast of Africa sliced down with such force that, taking the ground, it bounced up some two or three feet, drenching all hands from below as well as above. In seconds the white uniforms were soaked through to the skin, and cold struck with the wet. Captain Watkiss stood like a small, fat waterspout while Rear Admiral Hackenticker pulled his blue tunic open and dragged it over his head. Men rubbed streaming water from their eyes and found their gaiters covered with mud brought up around them by the bouncing slivers of rain. The ferocious downpour seemed to inhibit thought and to disorientate the will, and all at once, in the middle of it all, the Chinese struck like demons. One moment they were apart from the British sailors, silent and enigmatic and withdrawn, the next they had become a howling mob that came out of the wall of falling water and were inextricably mixed in with the armed but helpless seamen and marines, wielding clubs and rifle-butts, exhibiting a terrible and intense determination and present in such numbers that the British force was overwhelmed within minutes without a shot fired.

  As Captain Watkiss’ force found itself helplessly pinioned by supple Chinese arms in a virtually bloodless victory, there came the sound of trumpets and of horses and through the wild torrent of water riders were seen, a strong guard of cavalrymen led by a bulky man in a spiked helmet and with the eagled flag of the German Emperor held aloft by a standard-bearer behind him.

  Chapter 6

  BESIDE HIMSELF with fury, Captain Watkiss stamped a foot and the Chinese arm about his throat tightened. He gasped and choked. Evidently seeing the stripes of his rank upon his shoulders, the German officer rode towards him, pointing a cavalry sabre at his throat. The German spoke excellent English.

  “You are a captain of the British Navy.”

  “I am, blast you—”

  “You are the senior officer, Captain?”

  “Yes!”

  “I apologize for your predicament. I am Count Hermann von Furstenberg.”

  “Really. Kindly tell this man to release me or you’ll be in trouble after I reach Hong Kong.”

  The German smiled. “I wish nothing but your welfare, Captain, and shall do as you ask, but if you move a step, I shall slice off your head.” He gave a sharp order in Chinese, and Watkiss felt the grip around his neck slacken and fall away.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Watkiss demanded as the rain continued with undiminished force. He glared around at his individually pinioned men, much surprised at the lack of bloody wounds; with the dagoes, that failed to make sense. “Why have I been attacked?”

  “Did you not expect to be?”

  “Never mind what I expected,” Captain Watkiss replied angrily. “Merely explain, that is all I ask! What is your involvement, Count von Furstenberg, pray tell me that?” He shivered; the wet cold feeling was dreadful and Watkiss believed he must take a fever. China was full of fever since it was so dirty, and there wouldn’t be a decent British leech within a thousand miles.

  The German said, “I act for my Kaiser, and my Kaiser does not wish war. I am commanded from Berlin to deflect your sailors—”

  “You knew I was hurrying to the succour of the Consulate, did you?”

  “No, Captain, I made the assumption after certain intelligence reached me of your naval movements from Hong Kong. I sought instructions by cable from Peking. I was told only to stop you if you should come, and send you back to your gunboats without undue fighting.”

  “You mean the blasted Chinese are in German pay?”

  “You may make your own deductions, Captain, but should remember that the Chinese are not easily controlled and I have had much difficulty in preventing them slaughtering you. I offer no guarantee that their good behaviour will continue, and I advise you to be circumspect and accept your situation.”

  “I shall do no such thing,” Watkiss declared flatly. “I am here in the name of Her Majesty Queen Victoria and here I shall remain until I have carried out my orders from my Commodore.” He lifted his voice. “Mr Halfhyde? Count von Furstenberg, kindly find Lieutenant Halfhyde and have him brought to me.”

  “For what purpose, Captain?”

  “I consider that my business, Count von Furstenberg, and you will kindly do as I say without further argument.”

  HALFHYDE WAS absent upon action of his own choosing: in the sudden confusion of the blinding rain and the mêlée as the Chinese advanced, he had seen a way more or less clear down a side alley alongside which he and Cole had been standing; and he had grabbed Cole’s arm and hustled him along it. Their uniforms were so filthy as to be virtually unrecognizable, and speed had done the rest. The two officers had approached the rear of the Consulate garden unmolested, all the Chinese being engaged in the embattled front. They had scaled a wall and dropped smack through the rusted tin roof of an earth closet provided for the use of the coolies attached to the Consulate and thus placed out of sight from the building itself. Here they had lain low just in case any hostile eyes had spotted them and were waiting. When reconnaissance showed a clear field, Halfhyde decided to take the risk.

  “Now, Cole.”

  “A simple dash for it, sir?”

  Halfhyde nodde
d. “Possibly not so simple. The Consulate staff may have itching fingers on their triggers. We must run for our lives.” Ahead of his First Lieutenant, he came out from cover, letting go of his nose as he emerged. As it happened, no Chinese had penetrated into the grounds and the reason for this, a reason that Halfhyde had anticipated, became clear the moment they came in sight from the windows in rear: a stream of rifle bullets zipped into the ground close to Halfhyde’s legs and a voice ordered the two filthy figures to halt.

  They did so, raising their hands in the air as a precaution, and Halfhyde identified himself. “Open up a door quickly!” he called. This was done; and Halfhyde and Cole entered the Consulate by way of the kitchen area. There were no Chinese servants to be seen, but European women were preparing a meal by the look of it; Halfhyde assumed, and this was later to be confirmed, that the Chinese staff had deserted en masse many days previously. The women, all of them haggard and many of them red-eyed, were a mixed bunch, many of them being, presumably, escapees from the sacked consulates: French ladies of fashion, voluble as they toiled at vessels containing soup and rice, English housewives and some formidable American ladies who looked as though they had recently come from opening up the West. Halfhyde was led by the man who had admitted him, a young man named Vosper who held the junior rank of consular-agent, to the upper reaches of the Consulate and into the presence of the Consul himself. The window shutters stood open despite the rain and Halfhyde, hearing mob sounds, looked down to see a movement of Chinese and British away from the Consulate, with Captain Watkiss waving his arms energetically in the air in apparent protest as he was tugged at by his detested dagoes.

  Carstairs shook Halfhyde’s hand. “Welcome to my Consulate,” he said with a smile. “You’re two more mouths to feed, but no matter—we’ll be glad enough of you when the attack comes.” He turned to Lord Edward. “So you’re my son’s friend—I remember you, of course.”

  “Awfully good of you, sir.”

  Carstairs, a friendly man, waved a hand and grinned. “Not at all. Your Latin’s atrocious, by the way.”