Halfhyde on the Yangtze

by Philip McCutchan

  Mr Beauchamp lurched and slipped on the wet deck of the bridge. Yes, undoubtedly the vessel was going down further by the head, slowly to be sure, but inexorably. And then a shout from the fo’c’sle urged a speedy decision, and Beauchamp took his courage in both hands.

  He called down, “Very well, Petty Officer Thoms, knock away the pin, if you please, and make sure all hands are aft of the slip.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “Mr Pumphrey, the yeoman must call up Bee and Wasp, informing them of what I am doing. Their Commanding Officers must take such independent action as they see fit.”

  “Yes, sir.” Pumphrey turned to the yeoman of signals. On the fo’c’sle Thoms bent to tap out the pin in the joining-shackle. He tapped and banged and swore roundly, but nothing happened. Mr Beauchamp called down to him, and he paused in his labours and looked up.

  “It’s no use, sir, she won’t budge. The wood plug’s gone, but the pin…she’s settled in like—”

  “Is there no other way, a quicker one perhaps?”

  “Well, sir, that pin, she’s never going to budge. I reckon the only way’s to knock away the Blake slip, then go below to the cable locker and knock away the Senhouse slip.”

  “Yes, very well then, Petty Officer Thoms. Please ensure that no hands remain in danger on the fo’c’sle when you go below.”

  “That I will, sir.” Thoms spat on his hands and lifted his heavy blacksmith’s hammer high and brought it down on the mousing hook of the Blake slip. The hook fell away and the jaws of the slip came off the cable, leaving the vessel held only on the Senhouse slip in the cable locker. Shouting the hands off the fo’c’sle, Thoms led the way below, moving at the double. On the bridge, Beauchamp waited, biting his fingernails and looking white about the gills. Now that he was committed, he should have felt better but did not. Captain Watkiss, when he came back aboard, would be sure to think of a better way. Soon from below came tremendous hammerings that clanged throughout the gunboat and seemed to make even the bridge reverberate. It was like a devil’s orchestra, filled with foreboding. Beauchamp, passing the order to the engine-room to stand by to go ahead, waited tensely for the end of the cable to fly up from the navel-pipe, whip violently across the fo’c’sle plating, and speed down the hawse-pipe, thus leaving the Cockroach free upon the waters. Beauchamp gripped the bridge rail, his knuckles showing deathly white. Any moment now; but, instead, the hammering stopped and a moment later the carpenter’s mate clumped to the upper deck and called to the bridge.

  “Yes, Petty Officer Thoms?”

  “Slip’s stuck fast, sir, like that bleedin’ pin.”

  “You can’t free it?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Oh, my God, now what will happen?”

  “Likely we’ll be arse uppards soon, sir.”

  “Can’t you do anything?”

  “Well, sir, if things were normal like we could ’eave in another joining-shackle, an’ try another pin, but now that’d only draw us down further, see, an’ too far for safety. An’ we’ve paid out so much cable, the shackle on deck’s the only one left inboard. I’ll just carry on ’ammering, sir.” Petty Officer Thoms vanished below once again, and Mr Beauchamp uttered prayers. He watched as river water lapped right over the stem; he watched as the lip of the hawse-pipe disappeared. The hammering was resumed. Mr Beauchamp, looking out towards the wharf where one or two storm lanterns flickered on the tops of poles to cast a dim and yellow light, saw a strange sight: Chungking appeared to be sinking below his own level, and water was streaming deep across the wharf and into the streets. From astern of Cockroach came a prolonged blast upon a steam siren, causing Mr Beauchamp to jump a mile, then another from a little further off: Bee and Wasp were under way while he, the acting Senior Officer God help him, was stuck fast like a dog tied to a stake.

  FOR SOME time now the Chinese, the fellow prisoners of the British and Americans in the town gaol, had been restive and rude. They had continued to manifest hate for the non-yellow races by calling comments and were now rattling the bars of their cages and grimacing like monkeys. The comment was lost upon all but Bodmin, but its intent was clear enough, and the constant rattling made Captain Watkiss’ head ache intolerably. However, he set his teeth and endured it: the wretched dagoes would not be amenable to orders, and he did not propose to make himself look foolish by issuing any. But his fury increased and, bottled up, threatened to suffocate him. By God, once he was free…but would he ever be? Would he ever again set foot upon a bridge? The noise was driving him insane and he shook all over like a tubby castanet…the blasted guards were taking no notice whatever and Bloementhal and Hackenticker were still throwing or playing or whatever the jargon might be, their interminable craps, an appallingly pointless pastime. The Americans’ impassiveness and ability to disregard the dagoes’ din irritated Captain Watkiss immensely, and his mood grew worse. After a while he had tried turning his back upon the crap players and stuffing his fingers into his ears against the rattling of bars, but his arms had begun to ache badly and he had withdrawn his fingers. By now he had grown used to the dreadful Chinese smell and didn’t really notice it much except now and again when a worse-than-usual waft struck him and he retched. Then, over the noise, rapid conversation came from a number of gaolers who suddenly entered the cage passage to speak to the sentry; and Watkiss noticed that Bodmin was pricking up his ears.

  “What is it, Mr Bodmin? What are they talking about?”

  “There be flood, zur.”

  “I’m not surprised. Is the gaol threatened?”

  “I believe it be, zur, yes.”

  “Good! The water will clean it.”

  “Aye, zur, and drown us more’n likely, zur.”

  “Oh, nonsense.”

  “’Tisn’t nonsense, zur, it’s ’appened afore now.”

  “And the prisoners?”

  “Left where they was, zur, to drown.”

  “Oh. Were they murderers, awaiting the death penalty in any case?”

  “Not all on ’em, zur, no, but they Chinamen, they execute all manner o’ criminals, not just murderers, zur.”

  “Well, Mr Bodmin, they’ll rescue us you may be sure, since we’re not criminals but prisoners of war for whom the blasted dagoes must have a use.”

  “I ’ope you be right, zur.”

  “I am. Admiral Hackenticker, do you not agree?”

  “That depends, Captain.”

  “Oh? On what, may I ask?”

  “Whose hands we’re in.”

  “As I’ve said before, my dear sir, we must be in official hands since we’re in the official town gaol—”

  “That doesn’t have to signify, you know—”

  “No, I don’t know,” Captain Watkiss interrupted in a temper, “and it does signify, that’s fact, I said it. Why look upon the black side?” He averted his face; both the Americans were looking sour, presumably because they knew very well he was right. It was the British way not to accept defeat or even to consider it, which was why the British had never been beaten in the field, except by—oh yes, the Americans, but that didn’t count, it hadn’t been a real war and the British had shown a natural and proper reticence when fighting colonists who, after all, were at that time basically British themselves. Had they extended themselves, King George’s men would have had no difficulty in winning, no difficulty at all…Captain Watkiss’ thoughts came to a sudden end when a semi-naked Chinese strode into the passage carrying an immense sword such as had been flourished during the march upon the Consulate earlier: an executioner’s sword, and the idea, obviously, was to terrify. Captain Watkiss refused to be impressed but made enquiries all the same.

  “Mr Bodmin, what is this person’s function?”

  Bodmin was looking decidedly scared. He said, “’E be Shen Yun-wu, zur, the official executioner like.”

  “Official?”

  “Ar, zur.”

  “Oh. Well, as I said to Admiral Hackenticker, we should not look upon the black s
ide. Keep a stiff upper lip, my dear Bodmin. Remember we’re British.” He gave the Americans a long, meaningful stare: Bloementhal was looking pretty sick, and very white, but all diplomats were yellow-bellies. A number of Chinese, gabbling away, advanced upon the door of the cage. “What are they saying, Mr Bodmin?”

  “Zur, they do ’int at trouble.”

  “Kindly be precise, Mr Bodmin, I am not a young woman faced with rape, I can withstand the facts.”

  “Ar, zur.” There was a tremble in the aged boatswain’s voice. “We be goin’ to be took to the Consulate, zur, or rather outside it like…”

  “Well, come on, man, come on! For what purpose? Why the Consulate?”

  “I don’t rightly know that, zur, but I think they Chinamen be goin’ to cut arf our ’eads, zur.”

  HALFHYDE STOOD by the window, broodingly. The onset of night had brought no stratagem to his mind. Morale inside the Consulate was by now low. To have broken out would still have been Halfhyde’s wish, but to do so would have been to sign the death warrants of the four men held in the gaol, and that he was not prepared to risk; there had to be a different approach, and sometimes procrastination paid off, allowing time for passions to cool and threats to be seen as dangerous to those who uttered them. To execute persons of importance must lead to certain retribution, and perhaps the Chinese could be made to see this before it was too late. Halfhyde turned from the window; outside the floodwater was deep, and appeared to be deepening more, but the mob had gathered again nevertheless, in sampans and anything else that floated, seeming to sense that matters were about to come to a head. Halfhyde, listening to the unlovely sounds from that mob, glanced for the hundredth time at the clock on the wall: eleven thirty-two, just under half an hour to go. Carstairs was sitting at his desk, gloomily drinking a glass of brandy. The Reverend Marchwood Erskine had already lowered the level of his John Haig and lay slumped in an easy chair with his black-trousered legs thrust out. A vice-consul was putting the finishing touches to the collection of all official documents and correspondence and the removal of it to the incinerator in the kitchen quarters. Other staff came and went, bringing reports of readiness to Carstairs, who received them with preoccupied nods of his head. In the main the women were bearing up well; there had been some hysterics, mostly from the French contingent, but these had been calmed with brandy. Some of the children were weepy, but the prevalent feeling among them was excitement; they knew nothing of the threat of public execution—nor indeed did any of the sheltering community. Carstairs had thought that best, and Halfhyde had agreed.

  At eleven forty Lord Edward came into the room, having made rounds.

  “All’s well, sir.”

  “Thank you, Mr Cole. What’s the feeling now?”

  “They’re being awfully brave, sir, awfully strong. I’m sure we could make a fight of it, sir.”

  “Mr Carstairs thinks otherwise.”

  “Oh, well, sir, orders are orders.” Lord Edward lowered his voice and spoke confidentially into Halfhyde’s ear. “Does Mr Carstairs mean to surrender, sir, d’you think?”

  “Events will shape themselves, Mr Cole. There’ll be no surrender without guarantees of safety for the people who took shelter here.”

  “Yes, quite, sir.” Cole paused. “Guarantees, sir. Can we accept the word of the Chinese? I mean—”

  “Yes, Mr Cole, I know very well what you mean, and I fear the answer must be no.”

  “It’d be awfully rotten to leave the women and children in the lurch, sir.”

  “I know. That makes the question of surrender highly doubtful.”

  “In which case the Captain and the others will die, sir.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s rotten too,” Cole said glumly. “Simply rotten.”

  “Many things are rotten in this world, Mr Cole, and you are beginning to learn the strains of command and of the need to make life and death decisions, sometimes instantly.” Halfhyde paused, looking Cole in the eye. “Mark the word instantly, Mr Cole!”

  Cole frowned and lifted an eyebrow quizzically, then nodded. “I believe I see what you’re driving at, sir. You think we may have a sudden opportunity of turning the tables on the Chinese?”

  “I hope, that’s all! Stranger things have come to pass before now, and you may be sure I shall be ready to take full advantage of any shift—” Halfhyde broke off as the mob sounds came louder through the rain. He strode back quickly to the window and looked down. The mob was really howling now, a sound of bitter and intense hate and lust for blood and killing, and in a moment Halfhyde saw why: a weird boat with an upthrust dragon’s head for a prow was approaching under the impulse of oarsmen, and in the light from the many storm lanterns rigged along its length and in the hands of the boat-borne mob, he saw the hostages. They were heavily guarded and behind them stood the massive, naked-chested figure of the official executioner, his hands resting upon the hilt of his great curved sword whose tip pricked into the deck planking of the prison boat.

  Chapter 9

  THERE HAD been much indignity in the act of removal from the gaol: into the mind of Captain Watkiss had come a vaguely remembered term used by the law—General Gaol Delivery, and that just about summed it up even if in reverse. They were delivered, like sides of beef or common convicts, into the boat waiting upon the floodwaters, and only just in time. Although the building was raised well off the ground in order to cope so far as possible with the vagaries of the Yangtze, it reposed not upon a hill but on low ground, and the water had already reached the level of the doorway and was slopping in. A number of Chinese officials were already making off in other boats, the rats deserting the sinking ship and leaving the remaining prisoners to their fate. For a happy moment, Captain Watkiss managed to convince himself that his rank was responsible for rescue from drowning and all was well after all, but the moment, bearing in mind the presence of the executioner and his sword, did not last long. Watkiss instructed Bodmin to inform the guards that he did not propose to embark in the boat, and Bodmin did so, but Watkiss was at once seized and lifted bodily and conveyed, with legs kicking helplessly, through a slop of dirty water to the exit and dropped to the bottom-boards. As they cruised subsequently through the streets, cries and yells came down from windows on either side and filth was hurled at the foreign devils.

  “What abominable people, Mr Bodmin.”

  “Not all on ’em, zur.”

  “I suppose,” Watkiss said disparagingly, “you refer to whatever her name is, your wife.” Mrs Bodmin would, he suspected, in fact follow her native Chinese custom and put her surname first, making her Bodmin Ling-Fung or whatever. “I don’t know how you could bring yourself to marry a Chinee, frankly! Did you obtain your commanding officer’s consent at the time?”

  “’Twere after I retired like, zur.”

  “Then your senior officer in Chinese Customs?”

  Bodmin shook his head and looked obstinate, as though he had had enough of Captain Watkiss by now. “No, zur, I’d ’ad years an’ years o’ asking permission about all manner o’ things in the Navy, zur, so I didn’t ask no more I didn’t.” He paused, then went on solemnly as though making a death-bed confession, “As a matter o’ fact, zur, she bain’t be my wife, not strictly speaking like, zur.”

  “What?”

  “We do co-’abit, zur, that be all.”

  “Goodness gracious!”

  “I know ’tain’t right, zur, in the sight o’ the Lord, and I do be very sorry.”

  “She’s not Mrs Bodmin at all, then? Not a British subject?”

  “On’y by custom like, zur, by common law as they do say—”

  “But your principles, man!” Watkiss was outraged; Bodmin had told him, as he had told Beauchamp, of his high moral tone, the one that permitted no drink or foul language. “I must say I’m most surprised.”

  “Ar, zur, I confess my wickedness now before the Lord, zur, and ask His mercy upon an ’umble sinner like, but I do be yuman, zur.”


  “At your age, Bodmin?”

  “It be the last thing that dies in a man, zur.”

  Watkiss made no response to that; there was a great deal of truth in it, in fact, as he was himself aware. Naval service, the service of Her Majesty, was hard in more ways than one and Captain Watkiss, in Her Majesty’s interests, had passed many deprived years at a stretch. But—and here was one of the many differences between the wardroom and the lower deck or even the warrant officers’ mess—he had never fallen so low as to seek solace with dagoes. West Africa, the East Indies, South America, Bermuda, Malta, Gibraltar, the Red Sea, India: all these places and no hanky-panky. If the Pope could do it, then so could a Post Captain of the Royal Navy. It followed that a mere boatswain could too; Watkiss felt a keen sense of disappointment in Bodmin who had let the side down. Yet every cloud had a silver lining and his brooding on Bodmin’s sins and weaknesses had the effect of occupying his mind during his journey to the exclusion of the menacing manifestations of the Chinese en route; and he was surprised when the rowers of the dragon-prowed boat held water with their oars. The way came off and they drifted below the windows of the British Consulate.