“Maybe, but Foochow’s a long way south of Shanghai. Marriot-Lee may not have knowledge of Russian movements.”
“Really?” Watkiss raised his eyebrows. “I was under the impression you brought word from your legation in Peking. Will they not have thought fit to inform the British naval command at Hong Kong?”
Hackenticker shrugged. “I can’t say, Captain. Maybe yes, maybe no. With the legation out of contact by the cable links, which’ve been cut, it’ll take a hell of a long while to get word through to Hong Kong or anywhere else.”
Watkiss shook his telescope in frustration: Americans were quite impossible. He was about to utter strong words when very suddenly the world turned upside down. There was a loud shout from the carpenter’s mate on the fo’c’sle and the next split second, after a dreadful banging noise, Captain Watkiss was jerked from his chair and thrown to the deck of his cabin. The Americans were similarly assailed. The Cockroach was shaken violently from stem to stern, rocking and pitching at the same time. Noise came from everywhere: the remaining coal rattled about the bunkers, woodwork creaked and groaned under massive strain, and the wire rigging twanged like an orchestra. Small objects rained down upon Watkiss and the Americans—all Watkiss’ personal gear: toothbrush, shaving tackle, a tin of solidified brilliantine for the hair, tumblers, Burke’s Landed Gentry from the bookshelf, the latter very heavy when flung. As his ship settled herself, Captain Watkiss rose from the wreckage like a phoenix, red, rattled and angry. There was a polite knock at the doorpost of his cabin, and the curtain was drawn aside. The sub-lieutenant stood there at attention.
“Sir, Mr Halfhyde’s compliments. The cable has now parted, and we are under way.”
THE CARPENTER’S mate had been flung overboard with two men of the cable party, but all were drawn from the river unharmed. Many of the ship’s company had suffered bruising, and one man had a wrist broken. Some stokers had been burned, but not seriously, and there was nothing the sick berth attendant couldn’t cope with. Though angry that his ship had come free without warning, Watkiss was only too thankful to be under way and able to project his mind towards the future and a successful dash with his overcrowded flotilla past Shanghai and out into the East China Sea and the safe arms of Marriot-Lee’s cruiser squadron. Once again upon his bridge, Watkiss passed the orders for the flotilla to form into line ahead and proceed out of Chungking. They set off at immense speed, borne along on the floodwaters racing for the gorges and the open sea; and they proceeded with some navigational difficulty since the actual course of the Yangtze was totally invisible beneath them. The question of bunkers was much upon Captain Watkiss’ mind as what was to be seen of Chungking dwindled away behind, still shrouded in rain. What a country. Thank God he was British! Looking over the forward guardrail of his bridge he saw Bloementhal hovering by the canvas prison in which a wet Song Tso-P’eng was sitting disconsolately, and he called down sharply.
“Mr Bloementhal!”
Bloementhal looked up and waved a hand. “Yeah?”
“Kindly leave the woman alone, if you please.”
“It’s one hell of a way to treat a lady, Captain.”
“I’d be obliged if you’d leave the conduct of my ship to me, Mr Bloementhal, thank you.”
“Anything you say…” Bloementhal walked aft and vanished. Watkiss simmered silently for a few moments, then turned his mind back to bunkers. Having topped up initially off Foochow from Marriot-Lee’s cruisers, and having steamed subsequently at slow and therefore economical speed, he should have had enough coal for the return voyage to Shanghai where he would be able to replenish for the haul south to Hong Kong. However, although Cockroach’s supply of coal appeared to be adequate, the reports from Bee and Wasp were less happy: they had each consumed extra quantities, not much to be sure but possibly enough to embarrass them, whilst maintaining steam for steerage way after weighing when the waters rose. And Watkiss was, of course, responsible for the whole flotilla, or what that fool Beauchamp had left of it, and he could scarcely steam on and leave Bee and Wasp behind if their bunkers should empty. It was possible he could obtain coal at Nanking, but everything would depend upon the political situation, and also upon the movements and general chicanery of the Russians…pondering upon the Russians led Watkiss to thoughts of Count von Furstenberg, presently under close arrest in the paint store…and a blasted nuisance he was, with his wretched military Uhlans! Certainly they had proved of value in the fighting, but now they were cluttering up his ships along with the wretched trades-people and Consulate staff, and Watkiss, who disliked civilians as much as he disliked foreigners, but liked a tidy and shipshape flotilla, had been much put out to find his storerooms and alleyways chock-a-block with riff-raff. But von Furstenberg now: currently Watkiss couldn’t see how, but he might in some way prove a handy bargaining counter if the Russians should be encountered before the flotilla had cleared away from Shanghai. One never knew. It was worth bearing in mind. Hackenticker had indicated quite positively that von Furstenberg must not fall into Russian hands. But Captain Watkiss gave not a jot for any blasted Hun, and if there was no British requirement for von Furstenberg’s immunity from Russian arrest, then he could perhaps be jettisoned to them in return for a safe conduct out of the Yangtze.
“Mr Halfhyde, a word in your ear, if you please.”
Halfhyde bent towards his Captain, courteously, keeping an eye upon his navigation at the same time. Briefly, Watkiss revealed his thought processes, and Halfhyde shook his head dubiously. “I don’t like it, sir.”
“What d’you mean, don’t like it? Why not, may I ask?”
“Count von Furstenberg fought on our side after leaving the Consulate, sir.”
“Yes, yes, I know! All honour to him. But I don’t suppose for a moment he did it for us, do you? Jiggery-pokery, my dear Halfhyde, the Huns are stuffed full of it! He must have had an ulterior motive, don’t you see?”
“Possibly, sir. But to hand him over to the Russians…it’s very extreme.”
“No it isn’t!”
“I can think of nothing more extreme, sir.”
“Oh, blast you, Mr Halfhyde, you’re as bad as Beauchamp.” Watkiss’ voice rose, and he brandished his telescope. “Wars are never won by namby-pambyism—extreme measures are often called for, and they are now, or may be. I thought I could count upon your support.”
Halfhyde said, “I shall obey your orders, sir, that goes without saying—”
“Yes, it does.”
“But I dislike your suggestion. It’s not British, sir.”
“Oh, balls and bang me arse, Mr Halfhyde, don’t become unctuous, I dislike unctuous people, dislike them intensely. I shall have a word with Admiral Hackenticker.”
“I’ve no doubt he’ll see it my way, sir. Admiral Hackenticker strikes me as an honourable man.”
“And I don’t, I suppose? I think you are damned impertinent, Mr Halfhyde, if not downright insubordinate, and I shall report as much to the Commodore-in-Charge at Hong Kong.” Furiously Captain Watkiss turned his back and bounced towards the ladder from the bridge, which he descended rapidly only to find his way blocked at the bottom by Mr Bodmin.
“Zur—”
“Oh, dear, what is it now, Bodmin?”
“It be my wife, zur—”
“Don’t call her your wife. She’s not.”
“No, zur, that be quite true, zur.” Mr Bodmin drew a hand across his nose, sniffing. “’Cept like I said, zur, by common law—”
“Which for all I know doesn’t pertain in China—but go on, what is it, I’m in a hurry.”
“Ar, zur. I’ve just ’ad words with ’er like, over the canvas dodger, not inside it, zur—”
“Good.”
“It be that Bloementhal, zur.” Mr Bodmin dropped his voice conspiratorially and clutched at Captain Watkiss’ arm, a gesture that Watkiss shook off impatiently. “She do say, zur, she’s clapped eyes on ’im afore now. An’ she do go on to say, zur, she don’t trust ’im.”
“Goodness gracious me! In what way, Bodmin?”
“Well, zur, she be truly British and never mind she’s one o’ they Chinamen. I brought ’er up proper like, zur, like she was a ratin’ in the Navy. It be natural to me, zur, if you take my meanin’. When I were in the old sailin’ Navy, zur—”
“Yes, yes, Bodmin, do keep to the point. What about Mr Bloementhal?”
“’E don’t be one o’ they Yanks at all, zur. Nor do ’e be Bloementhal.”
“He don’t—isn’t?” Watkiss’ ears were now a-cock-bill: he had never trusted Bloementhal, not an inch, and by God he’d been proved right! “Who is he, then?”
“Well, zur, she do say ’e be someone different like. Mind, I dunno if she do be right, but that’s what she says, an’ swears it be the truth like.”
“I see. And his true identity, in her view?”
“Ar!” Mr Bodmin gave an impertinent movement of an eyelid—a wink. Watkiss didn’t like that: Post Captains were not to be winked at. But he held his peace and waited for Bodmin to go on. “She be cold an’ she be terrible wet, zur, out there on the upper deck, zur. ’Tisn’t right.”
Watkiss glared. “Surely you’re not attempting to blackmail me into bringing the woman below decks, Bodmin?”
“No, no, zur, no,” Mr Bodmin said at once. “Course not! ’T wouldn’t be my place like. But she be too shivery and shaky, zur, to tell me the name, see? She be taken sick, zur, I do believe. Now, if she were to be put in a cabin like, and cosseted up proper—why, then, zur, she’d find ’er tongue.”
“Would she indeed? Suppose I were to take action of a different sort, Bodmin, and place you in arrest until your—until the woman talked? What then, hey?”
Bodmin gave a throaty chuckle. “Ar, zur, I’ve told ee afore, I bain’t in the Navy now, zur, I be retired. And I tell ee summat else: Song Tso-P’eng, zur, she be fair sick. Ar—fair sick she be! And she do be sort of British.”
“Yes, that’s all very well, but—”
“China’s a funny place, zur. All that rain an’ damp clothin’, zur. If she be left in the open like, she could take the cholera, zur, an’ that be bad aboard a ship, zur.”
Chapter 12
THE URGENT need to find out more, allied to his sense of duty, won a victory over rage, and Watkiss turned and shouted up the ladder to the bridge. “Mr Halfhyde!”
“Sir?”
“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to give up your cabin.”
“I have already, sir. One of the women from the Consulate, with two children—”
“Oh, hold your tongue, Mr Halfhyde, what a blasted nuisance everything is.” Watkiss turned and seethed along the deck, cogitating, the terrible rain finding its way down the neck of his oilskins. God damn and blast! Then he bounced back towards Bodmin, who was watching him hopefully yet cautiously. “Oh, very well, Bodmin, I suppose she’ll have to have my cabin, and I’ll put a sentry on the door, which will remain under guard until you and she disembark in Hong Kong.”
Bodmin touched his cap-peak. “Thankee, zur, thankee!”
“She must reveal all, Bodmin.”
“Ar, zur, that she will, zur.”
Watkiss gave an angry grunt and began to contemplate the paint store, out of which von Furstenberg would have to be ejected to make room for him, and where the Hun berthed thereafter Watkiss gave not a jot so long as he was under guard. It was all a most dreadful nuisance, but the woman’s story had to emerge, and Bodmin was an obstinate old fool who knew very well when he held the upper hand—and of course there was the threat of the cholera, which would be too terrible to contemplate in a close community. Watkiss knew little or nothing of medical science, but he did believe it possible that continual wet and exposure could weaken persons and lay them open to the scourge of cholera. He couldn’t possibly take the risk. He went below to take his leave of his cabin and have his gear shifted out by his servant to the paint store; and whilst there he tracked down cholera in a copy of The Ship Captain’s Medical Guide, a Board of Trade publication left behind by his predecessor who had presumably filched it from a merchant ship. His worst fears were confirmed: cholera went with the rainy season, the wretched comma bacillus flourished in conditions of damp but was killed by long drought, of which there was none in prospect. The sufferer descended through acute diarrhoea, vomiting, feeble circulation, coldness and cramps to total collapse. In China, and especially, God-damn it, along the Yangtze, cholera appeared every year without fail. It was a water-borne disease, and if rain wasn’t water then what was, and the first victims were those who were already exhausted. Death could strike within twelve hours from the onset. And the disease could spread like lightning.
Watkiss closed the book with a snap. Yes, his decision, though it had been a kind of surrender, had been right. He could not reach Hong Kong with all his ship’s company dead or dying.
“MR HALFHYDE, I have given orders that the sentry on my cabin is to prohibit all entry.” Watkiss bounced up and down on his heels. “There will be no fornication aboard the Cockroach, Mr Halfhyde, and I shall hold you responsible that it does not take place. And there’s one more thing.”
“Yes, sir?”
“The paint store. I’ll not be using it after all, so von Furstenberg can remain. I’ve just thought…I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me earlier. I shall take over the wardroom, and the refugees berthed in there must be re-allocated to somewhere else—the Captain must be able to avail himself of proper accommodation and privacy.”
“Very good, sir.”
“My officers will be allowed in for their meals, and for no other purpose, Mr Halfhyde.” Watkiss paused. “Kindly send for Mr Bodmin and arrange for Mr Pumphrey to relieve you on the bridge. You and Bodmin are to report to my cabin for the interrogation of Bodmin’s woman.” He left the bridge, aware that his flotilla was being borne along still at a somewhat risky pace. He proceeded below to his cabin where already the sentry was posted, gaitered and with a rifle. When the man failed to prevent his entry, Watkiss halted, turned and stared into his face.
“My orders were that no one should be allowed entry. Were they not?”
The seaman swallowed. “Yessir.”
“Then may I ask why you have not prevented me going in?”
“Well, sir, you’re the Captain, sir. It’s your cabin, sir.”
Watkiss flourished his telescope. “No, no, no—it’s not my cabin now, it’s Mr Bodmin’s—er—the Chinee woman’s. You should have stopped and questioned me. Do you understand?”
“Yessir, I do now, sir,” the man answered obligingly.
“Good. Because when a man acting as sentry is in dereliction of his duty, it is an offence punishable by warrant and could lead to the detention quarters in Hong Kong. On this occasion, I shall say no more, but next time will be different.”
“Yessir, thank you, sir.”
Watkiss bounced into his cabin. The sentry sucked at his teeth and reflected that there was no knowing with the old bugger; like as not, had he been stopped, the heavens would have fallen and himself told that no one but a blasted lunatic would fail to recognize his Captain. Inside the cabin, which was hot and stuffy, Song Tso-P’eng sat in Watkiss’ basketwork chair with her hands demurely in her lap and eyes cast down before the splendour of a Post Captain of the Royal Navy. Watkiss, having no Chinese, was somewhat at a loss when the girl stood up politely, and he made a sit-down-again motion with his hand. She appeared to understand and sat. She was, Watkiss realized, extremely good-looking, dark and slim. As with all Chinese women, her chest was flat: Watkiss liked breasts, but the woman was nonetheless attractive.
He made conversation in English whilst he waited for Halfhyde and Bodmin to report. “You are dry now,” he said. The girl smiled at him, very pleasantly indeed, almost invitingly. Well, of course, he was a good deal younger than Bodmin…since she seemed not to have understood, he tried again, laboriously digging into his pidgin. “Make not wet,” he said, then realized that t
his could be misunderstood. “Water go way from Song Tso-P’eng…oh, never mind.” Feeling at a loss again, he frowned, turned in a circle and made a pretence of ferreting about in his roll-top desk. He had a suspicion the girl had recovered pretty quickly from her ills, but of course that was just as well really. Some minutes passed, and Watkiss grew fractious under the girl’s scrutiny, which was upon him every time he turned round. However, some ten minutes after entry there was a commotion in the alleyway outside the cabin, and Watkiss put his head through the curtain and snapped at the sentry.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, man, let them in, I should have thought it obvious I wish to speak to them.” Halfhyde and Bodmin entered, and Watkiss told the sentry to move away out of earshot, threatening him with all manner of punishment if he should dare to eavesdrop. Then he turned back into the crowded cabin, pushing past Mr Bodmin towards his desk. “Now, Bodmin. The woman doesn’t look as sick as you led me to expect,” he said accusingly.
“P’raps not, zur, but ’tis better to be safe than sorry, zur, and the cholera be terrible nasty, zur. Vomit an’—”
“Yes, I’m aware of all that, thank you. Now if you’ll kindly be quick, I have much to do. Kindly extract her story, in English, if you please.”
“Ar, zur, I’ll do that.” Bodmin advanced towards his woman and sat on Watkiss’ bunk alongside the basketwork chair. He reached out and patted the girl on the cheek, his face wearing a thoroughly stupid expression of lust that made Captain Watkiss feel quite sick, it was all most undignified at the old goat’s age and he would have expected a better standard from a boatswain whose position as a warrant officer demanded responsible behaviour at all times. Caressing her cheek still, his veined hand trembling as he did so, Bodmin began speaking in Chinese, words that Watkiss—since the woman’s eyes melted at her preposterous old lover—suspected of being ones of endearment and suggestion rather than of interrogation.
Halfhyde on the Yangtze Page 15