Halfhyde on the Yangtze

by Philip McCutchan

  Captain Watkiss removed the uniform cap that by now had replaced his sou’wester, and mopped at his forehead. “Thank God that’s over, Mr Halfhyde.”

  “Amen, sir.”

  “You did well.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I was watching most carefully throughout, ready with advice.”

  “It was a comfort, sir. And now—”

  “First, that blasted missionary.” Captain Watkiss had not forgotten. The orders were passed, and the Reverend Marchwood Erskine was taken by two able-seamen to the fo’c’sle, where his garments were removed behind the canvas screen rigged originally for Bodmin’s woman, and the wash-deck hoses were turned most vigorously and coldly upon his dancing body until he was both clean and sober. Captain Watkiss personally ordered the vomit-covered clothing to be cast into the Yangtze; the clergyman, he said, was to be redressed from whatever might be found available aboard, and when rendered respectable was to be brought to the wardroom for words with himself. Watkiss conducted the interview in the presence of the British Consul from Chungking, who had been firmly told not to interrupt; his advice would be sought if and when required.

  Watkiss started off baldly. “You are a disgrace to your cloth, Mr Erskine.”

  “My dear sir, you have no right—”

  “Oh, yes, you are, and I have, that’s fact, I said it. I detest drunkenness, detest it. For a clergyman it’s unforgivable, but that’s between you and your God, and I shall not pre-empt His decisions. It’s your dreadful chicanery in other directions that is of the first concern to me in the execution of my duty. I demand an explanation.” Watkiss sat back with arms folded and his eyes raised to the deckhead as though he could no longer abide the sight of wickedness. “Produce it.”

  Erskine, still a little damp from his hosing, was shaking like a leaf; it could be the dregs of alcohol, or it could be guilt. He mustered speech and a touch of dignity. “If you’d be so good as to inform me of what I’m supposed to have done, Captain, I might be able to satisfy you that I have nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “Rubbish. You know perfectly well what I’m talking about, and you know you’ve been rumbled, and you know you’re a blasted traitor and a liar.” Watkiss’ gaze came down from the deckhead to fasten, monocle-aided and a-glitter, upon the parson. “Your information was utterly false and intended to mislead. Thanks largely to Admiral Hackenticker, you have been unmasked, and next you shall be unfrocked. A word to your bishop…but that will not be necessary, since you’ll face public trial in England—kindly hold your tongue, Mr Carstairs, I told you not to interrupt—”

  “Captain, I’m sorry, but a word would be advisable in your own interests.” The Consul leaned across and spoke into Watkiss’ ear: Watkiss frowned and grew restive. Carstairs seemed to be suggesting that for the missionary to utter untruths about a German to another German masquerading as an American just might not be a crime pursuable through the British courts, but Watkiss took no notice of that. Once the facts had been established, they would form part of his report to the Commodore in Hong Kong, who would thereafter report to the Admiralty, and that would be that. Erskine would be for it. Watkiss turned back to the parson to continue the interrogation and saw, to his astonishment, that Erskine was weeping. Tears were streaming down between the fingers that covered his face, and his shoulders were jerking like a reciprocating steam engine. Watkiss was about to utter a strong rebuke to unmanliness when he was interrupted by the wail of the voice-pipe. He snatched at it forbearingly. “Yes?” he snapped. “The Captain here.”

  The voice was Lord Edward’s and it was excited. “Signal from Bee, sir. She’s running short of coal.”

  “Oh, God damn and blast, Lord Edward, what am I expected to do about it? I’ll not be able to bunker before Nanking, if then! Tell them—” Watkiss broke off. There had been a clang from above, and now there were two more clangs, indicating that the bridge end of the voice-pipe had been dropped by Lord Edward and that Watkiss’ voice, issuing up it, was being unattended to. And the voice-pipe was picking up sounds of confusion and chaos. Watkiss, enraged, lifted his voice in a bellow through the flexible tube: “Lord Edward, kindly pay attention to your Captain—”

  “This is Halfhyde now, sir—”

  “What the devil—”

  “The Russians are in sight ahead, sir.”

  Chapter 15

  WATKISS WAS on his bridge in no time, furious that his flotilla should go and let him down at a time like this by running out of coal. He shook a fist towards the Bee, then rounded upon Halfhyde.

  “Mr Halfhyde, sound for action if you please.”

  “Is that wise, sir?”

  “Oh, balls to wisdom, Mr Halfhyde, there’s a time and place for everything, and I’m not to be intimidated.”

  “They’ve not yet tried to intimidate you, sir. I see no reason to suppose they will do so. We are carrying none of their nationals, and they have no right to stop us—”

  “I know, I know, you fool—”

  “Then do not exacerbate the situation, sir! Remember we have women and children aboard.”

  “Yes, exactly, and I must get them out of the Yangtze and into safe waters!”

  “Sir—”

  Watkiss brandished his telescope in Halfhyde’s face. “Stop this damned argument, Mr Halfhyde, and sound for action or I shall place you in arrest. We happen to have marines embarked, so they shall beat to quarters—that should put the fear of God into the buggers!” Watkiss glared out ahead towards the Russians: four gunboats of a class he recognized as superior to his own in speed, gun-power, and general fighting capability—for one thing, they carried torpedo-tubes. Long and low and sleek, they appeared as greyhounds to his hedgehogs. Again he addressed Halfhyde. “Make to Bee and Wasp, they too are to beat to quarters and are to feed their fires with anything that will burn. Woodwork, furniture, anything. They are to maintain steam at all costs.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Halfhyde passed the orders. There was a martial sound of drums more fitting to a battle squadron than the little gunboat flotilla. As his three-pounders were manned and armed, Watkiss waved his telescope energetically at the Russians.

  “Scum!” he cried loudly. There was a step upon the ladder: Rear Admiral Hackenticker, who asked permission to join him on the bridge. Watkiss nodded: the more brass upon his bridge today the better, and better still, in the circumstances, that it was international. He said, “A serious situation has arisen, Admiral.”

  “If you remember, Captain, I forecast that you might be sealed into the Yangtze—”

  “Yes. And if you remember, Admiral, I said I would fight my way through.”

  Hackenticker raised an eyebrow. “All that darned racket on the drums…you really mean to do just that?”

  “Of course!”

  “You must be crazy, Captain.”

  “Get off my bridge.”

  “Just one moment, Captain…now look, I was speaking in jocular vein as you might say…I don’t believe those Russians’ll offer resistance; I really don’t—”

  “I said, get off my bridge.” Captain Watkiss bounced angrily and waved his telescope. “I am not mad, and I shall not be addressed as a common seaman.”

  Hackenticker grinned. “So there!”

  “Kindly leave.”

  The American shrugged and turned away for the ladder. What the heck. Watkiss was mad, say what he liked. He vanished, while on the bridge Captain Watkiss seethed with anger, turning his thoughts towards Count von Furstenberg who, it had been clearly stated, was not to be allowed to fall into Russian hands, a fact that surely indicated that the Russians, for their part, would like him to; indeed, that also had been stated. Captain Watkiss was damned if he was going to bring Hackenticker back to his bridge for consultation; he would make his own decision and the devil take Hackenticker. He was hamstrung by the lack of coal; in truth, he needed an alternative to engaging in action, since if he did, his fuel would run out in the course of it. He would, theref
ore, if the chance arose, make good use of von Furstenberg as he had suggested earlier to Halfhyde. He would make untrue signals to the Russians indicating where von Furstenberg could be found if they would allow the gunboats free passage out. He lifted his telescope: the Russian vessels must have him within their range now, though they themselves were still out of reach of his three-pounders. Well, in any case, he fully intended to leave blatant aggression to the Russians, stupid popinjays, he wasn’t anybody’s fool. Once they had opened upon him, that would put him in the clear, and no one would blame him for opening fire then. Below now, all the civilians had been ordered off the upper deck. Along with the wretched Beauchamp, Mr Pumphrey had been released from guard duty to go to his action station; and as the two flotillas swept inexorably closer together, Mr Bodmin climbed to the bridge to make representations about his woman.

  “She’s as safe in my cabin as anywhere else, Mr Bodmin.”

  “Ar, zur. But she’d be a sight safer with me there, zur—”

  “Oh, nonsense, what use would you be?”

  “Well, protective like, zur, and I’ve no action station to go to, see.”

  “Oh dear, Mr Bodmin, action station or no, surely she’d expect you to play a man’s part in a fight? Or is it the custom in China to retire to the boudoir?”

  “Well, zur, I don’t know about that, zur, but it do be a fact that they Chinamen do think some of our customs be right daft, zur—”

  “How stupid. Why?”

  “Because they be different like, zur.”

  “Oh, nonsense, it’s they who are different, not us. Oh, go to her if you wish, Bodmin, do.”

  Mr Bodmin touched his cap. “Thankee, zur, thankee.” He clambered back down the ladder. The Cockroach plunged on, still flood-borne and going at a smacking pace. A flashing light was seen ahead, winking from the Russian flotilla-leader’s bridge.

  “Yeoman!”

  “Yessir.” Already the yeoman of signals was reading the message, and within half a minute had reported: “You are requested to heave to, sir.”

  Watkiss sniffed. “Am I, indeed. What balls. Make, no.”

  “Just no, sir?”

  “Just no. Wait a moment. Perhaps I should settle this affair from the very start and leave the blasted Russian in no doubt as to my intentions. Write this down, Yeoman. Make, From Senior Officer of Her Britannic Majesty’s First River Gunboat Flotilla detached from the naval command at Hong Kong: I regard myself as being upon the high seas, and any attempt by you to obstruct my passage will be deemed an act of war or piracy against Her Majesty the Queen. Doubtless, you understand that the Royal Navy does not stand idly by when opened fire upon. That’s all, yeoman.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” The yeoman padded to his signal lamp and began sending rapidly. The two flotillas were no more than a mile apart when the yeoman reported the reply. “Who said anything about opening fire, sir.”

  Watkiss’ face reddened. “Damned impertinence!” He turned to Halfhyde. “Warn my gun’s crews, if you please. Action may be imminent—I don’t trust dagoes.” As he finished speaking more signalling was observed; Watkiss waited impatiently for the yeoman, who reported, “Please disembark Count von Furstenberg, sir.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yessir, the message ends there, sir.”

  “H’m.” Captain Watkiss took a turn or two up and down his bridge, his long shorts flapping in the beginnings of a breeze. Now he would put his master plan into execution and fool the stupid Russians, who were all gaudy uniforms of light blue and gold and red and had no brains to speak of. “Yeoman, tell the Russians that Count von Furstenberg is not aboard my ship and why the devil should he be, but I am prepared under certain circumstances to reveal his whereabouts.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” The opposing flotillas closed more; the Russians had deployed to either side of the river, two to port and two to starboard. Clever…Watkiss saw that his flotilla could be raked from stem to stern as each ship passed by, caught by fire from both flanks with their own guns forced to fight on two sides at once. What bloodthirsty fiends the Russians were to be sure, a dreadful race! Watkiss sweated as he tried to judge the exact split second when, if von Furstenberg should fail as a bargaining counter, he should open, and the wisdom of doing so at all if the Russians did not. The buggers might leave it too late for him to answer with his popguns, while they for their part could go on pumping shells into his rear for quite some time. He would have but one hope: sheer speed, for so long as Bee and Wasp could keep their fires fed anyway.

  He looked astern. He fancied his ships were facing difficulties—they were tending to drop a little behind, and smoke of a curious texture and colour was coming from their funnels as unusual items were fed into the furnaces.

  Down swept Captain Watkiss; there was silence on the bridge of Cockroach now, a very tense silence. Watkiss watched narrowly, ready upon the instant to order his guns into flame and explosion if his telescope should show the smallest movement to indicate hostility. He felt vindicated in his act in beating to quarters when he saw without doubt that the dirty Russians had manned their guns and were just as ready as he was. And the buggers hadn’t damn well bothered to reply to his second signal.

  MUCH EARLIER, word of the Russian presence had spread amongst the civilians crowding the mess decks and alleyways, and this word had reached the paint store, where Count von Furstenberg, though no longer under arrest, was still being accommodated for want of anywhere better to put him. Von Furstenberg was cogitating: it was true, very true, as he had done his best to indicate to the British Captain, that he was no ally of the Russians who all along had been set to grab the all-important treaty from under his nose. On the other hand, he was now being swept away out of Chinese waters by the British Captain, who, he was becoming more and more convinced, would refuse to land him at Shanghai when he asked him to. It did not suit von Furstenberg to be withdrawn like a sack of potatoes from China and deposited with the stupid British in Hong Kong, whence it might take him months of cable and argument to be drawn back again. By that time, the Russians would have consolidated their position, so far as at the moment they had any at all, with the old Empress-Dowager, and he, Count von Furstenberg, emissary of his Kaiser, would have achieved nothing. The wretched British had kidnapped him in the first place, even though the exit from Chungking had been a collaborative lifesaving expedition in basis, and they couldn’t be trusted. Nor could the Russians, but in many ways they were easier to deal with than the British, having much more worldly ideas about international dealings…more amenable were the Russians! Oh, so much more amenable…von Furstenberg sat in the paint store and considered the advantages to be gained by the sharing of gold and concessions with the Czar of All The Russias so that at least his Kaiser would gain something if not all. With much care, all was in fact yet there to be gained. Yes, most certainly! Von Furstenberg, seeing positively on which side his bread was buttered, removed his polished leather Uhlan knee-boots and, barefoot, stepped out from the paint store into the alley.

  “Excuse please…excuse…Himmel, such dolts to get in my way!” He pushed and shoved. He reached the open deck, somewhere aft where the fool on the bridge would not see. Ahead were the Russians, so sinister-looking, but no matter the sinisterness. “Pardon me, please get out of my damn way, such stupid dolts.” Count von Furstenberg reached the gunboat’s bulwarks and without more ado climbed them. He stood teetering dangerously for a moment, then plopped in.

  The shout of “man overboard port” went up but Watkiss took no notice, his whole attention being riveted on the Russian guns as he swept so close between them that he could almost read the expressions on the faces of the seamen behind the breeches of the main armament. Some of those expressions were odd: men were laughing. Watkiss fumed and projected his telescope to the bridge of the flagship, where the Russian officers were also laughing, and laughing heartily. In the instant that his ship was abeam of the Russian flagship, he saw the Russian Captain lift his gold-braid
ed cap and give a solemn bow in his direction. Very soon upon the heels of this the signal came, plain for all his ships to read: FROM CAPTAIN SUVAROV TO BRITISH CAPTAIN. YOU ARE SUCH A LIAR.

  Watkiss bounced about his bridge, shaking a fist back towards the Russian flotilla. As he looked, he saw a dripping wet figure, large and fat, being hauled like a whale aboard the flagship and he turned upon Halfhyde.

  “Did I hear man overboard, Mr Halfhyde?”

  “You did, sir—”

  “And who was that man? No, don’t tell me, I can’t bear it! My God, now what’s the Admiralty going to say? I’ve a damn good mind to put the whole blasted ship’s company in arrest, surely to God somebody could have stopped the bugger!”

  THEY SPED downriver, disconsolately on the part of Captain Watkiss. Nanking could or would provide no bunkers, and no notice was taken of Watkiss’ peremptory tones. They continued on at the most economical speed, all vessels now burning smashed chairs and tables, officers’ wash-hand cabinets, wooden bulkheads and anything else that would take flame and eke out the small remaining coal stocks that as yet provided a nucleus. In the end it was Mr Bodmin who saved the day when there was nothing left to burn at all: he busied himself with all the canvas he could find stored aboard the three gunboats, and a sailmaker’s palm he found hidden away in the deck store now vacated by Count von Furstenberg; eventually Watkiss’ flotilla made its way through the channel off Shanghai under sail of a sort and, with a distant view of the just-arriving cruisers of the China Squadron, entered Woosung to take, at long last, bunkers. At Woosung the somewhat smelly and decomposing body of Kurt Schmultz alias Bloementhal was landed into the custody of the police authority, and word came through from United States sources that the body of the real Bloementhal from the Peking Legation had been found in a sleazy alley in the back streets of Shanghai. In Woosung Rear Admiral Hackenticker also took his leave and was piped over the side into a gasoline gig of the United States Navy. Captain Watkiss heaved an almighty sigh of relief as he speeded the parting guest.