The China Station (The Earl’s Other Son Series, Book 1)

by Wareham, Andrew

  The First Officer spotted the direction of his eye.

  “The young lady is Miss Blantyre, Lord Magnus. She is to join her father, one of the Blantyre shipping and steel family, who have their Hong Kong office. In the company of a paid companion, her mother unfortunately deceased as of last year. No brothers. She will be worth a pretty penny one day, I do not doubt. The family is known for piety, one understands, sir, much involved in missionary work in China.”

  Magnus laughed – he would most definitely not be making her acquaintance, he believed.

  “Not quite my interest, sir. Though I do not doubt that I shall be coming to the succour of more than one missionary who has offended local sensibilities. One seemed to be reading in The Times of almost nothing else occurring in China.”

  “The missionaries do tend to be inflexible, shall we say, Lord Magnus, in their approach to the problems thrown up by the Chinese way of existence. There are more reports of unrest in China every time we dock at Hong Kong or Shanghai, sir. The Empress in Peking has little love for foreigners, I think, and uses the often obtuse behaviour of the missionaries to stir her own people up against the British and Russians, and Americans especially.”

  “The Empress, you say, sir? Not the Emperor?”

  “The old lady holds the power, Lord Magnus. The Emperor is a weakling, so one hears, who is kept quiet in his own obscure little palace, surrounded by eunuchs and odalisques who amuse his little mind – and no doubt tire his unhealthy body – to the extent that he plays no part in the government of his lands. The Empress is said to be remarkably clever – for a woman – and to be able to control the court and, indeed, the whole country. That said, the Empire is decaying, for the provincial governors recruit their own armies and have loyalty to none other than themselves. Those at a distance from Peking – and the Imperial army – are in effect independent, and can be bribed by whichever foreign power has an interest in their part of China.”

  “Difficult! A captain sailing a gunboat along one of the great rivers might never know just who ruled on either bank.”

  “Not at all, Lord Magnus! The captain rules, within the range of his guns.”

  “The Chinese cannot like that, sir.”

  “The Chinese can lump it, Lord Magnus. They have no power, despite their numbers and the wealth of many of them, because they will not work together for the benefit of all. One can always buy a mandarin, you know, Lord Magnus – and often not at a very high price. I am told that the offer of assistance in taking another warlord’s town, which may involve little more than a threat from a ship’s guns, may be worth a good few thousand in the pockets of the captain and his officers. We see fewer such opportunities in the merchant service, of course, Lord Magnus, but a few crates of repeating rifles may make a small fortune – or so I am told, not knowing from personal experience, as goes without saying.”

  “Of course, sir. One could not imagine anything else.”

  Miss Blantyre withdrew from the dining saloon and Magnus sat down with the First Officer to take a quiet drink in the main lounge, and to pump him for all his knowledge of China and its ways. The sailor showed himself to know a lot about Hong Kong and Shanghai – which were effectively European owned cities – and nothing about the country more than two miles from the docks. Typical of the Merchant Navy, he mused. Magnus

  then turned the conversation to the Royal Navy and its functions on the China coast.

  “Pirates and slavery on the coast, Lord Magnus. Brigands and warlords up the rivers – though your Nymphe will not penetrate too far inland – three or four hundred miles up the Yangtze will be your limit, for the old girl’s draught is rather deep for river work. Not too much in the way of bunker capacity, either, Lord Magnus. Her captain will wish to use the wind when possible – she is brigantine rigged, though not especially handy under sail.”

  Magnus smiled blankly; he had not himself set a sail since sitting in a dinghy at Dartmouth, had never since his days as a cadet actually sailed in a naval vessel that still used canvas. The Second Sea Lord knew as much, as well – he had access to his service record; he must have chosen a Nymphe for the opportunity it gave for Magnus to be broken as an incompetent.

  “My cruise at Dartmouth as a cadet was in a sailing frigate, of course, sir. I believe I remember how to sail such a ship.”

  The First Officer was amused – he had wondered whether the younger man would have the slightest idea of what to do under sail. Royal Naval superiority might well be insufficient to save his lordship’s neck, he thought; he hoped so, having no love for the airs and graces of the Navy.

  “She is well armed, as small ships go, Lord Magnus, with no fewer than eight of five-inch breech-loaders and as many machine guns. It makes her a likely ship to go pirate hunting. There are still a few of the old fleets of pirate junks to be found, though it is more commonly a case of boarding from small boats along the coast or rivers. You may expect some trade for your guns, I believe.”

  Magnus was inclined to welcome that prospect. There had been many years of peace and there seemed no prospect of a respectable war to come and very few officers had smelt powder. Many a Victorian warship had progressed from launching slip to breaker’s yard and never fired a gun in anger in the twenty years in between. The chance to slap down some pirates, or put an end to slavers’ tricks, was to be welcomed – there was a good chance of achieving distinction, of putting up a ribbon that would go some way to rehabilitating him.

  He sat down with a book in his cabin, listening to the wind howling and thankful that he would not be called out on watch in the middle of the night, as the First Officer undoubtedly would be. He turned in and slept undisturbed, woke to his morning coffee and then his breakfast, all very leisurely and grand. He noticed Miss Blantyre sitting to breakfast, admired her sea-legs, which led him naturally to wonder what her actual legs might be like – but that he would make no attempt to discover – shipboard romances might be conducted with willing widows, or lonely wives going out to join distant husbands, but not with unmarried young ladies with rich parents who could make a great deal of trouble. He had put himself into jeopardy already through carelessness in the lists of love; he would not tilt a lance at Miss Blantyre and, should she take the initiative, he would show himself unwelcoming. It was not, he told himself, that he was a dedicated naval officer, like so many of the earnest young men one shared a wardroom with, but he did demand a comfortable standard of living which could most easily be attained in naval service. When he married, which he certainly would have to be if he became a post-captain, then it would be a cautious, sensible, naval affair, his lady chosen from the proper families in good odour with Their Lordships of the Admiralty. If he needed romance, well, that could be safely pursued outside the domains of wedlock, with young females of the sort and background to know how to amuse an officer without the least expectation of marrying him.

  He nodded distantly to Miss Blantyre as they crossed in the doorway and proceeded to take his morning’s exercise in the half-gale blowing across the promenade deck – too many naval officers became portly, for lack of physical occupation in the confines of a ship.

  Chapter Tw

  o

  The China Station

  The weather eased and the passengers returned to company and public view. Magnus found himself to be the sole possessor of a title and hence to be well towards the upper end of shipboard society. To those almost in the know was added the attraction that he was a Commander RN, in his early twenties – an uncommon distinction. A few, including Mr Cecil, naturally, had heard why he had achieved his promotion and were mildly amused; one or two, Miss Blantyre among them, had been told that he had transgressed against the Code and was in effect being sent into exile – they tended to be slightly contemptuous. Magnus overheard a few comments, mostly made just loud enough that they would come to his ears.

  “By way of being a wastrel, my dear, but his father is a favourite of Her Majesty and his brother, the heir is a comin
g man in the political field.”

  Many families had slightly disreputable younger sons, and most of these were disposed of overseas. Magnus gathered that he was, in many eyes, little more than a beachcomber, an embarrassment sent away from the view of Mayfair. He wondered to what extent his brother had contributed to the rumours.

  Magnus had small affection for his brother, older than him by five years, a large gap during their childhood. His brother carried the courtesy title of Baron Eskdale, the second honour of the house which accrued to the heir, and had long felt the weight of his dignities; in Magnus’ opinion, he was not very brainy and insufferably dull. Eskdale had become an MP at almost the earliest possible age, sitting in the Liberal interest, as was family tradition. The courtesy title did not qualify him to sit in the House of Lords – that promotion would come when his father died and he became Earl. He would certainly become a junior minister when next the Liberals formed a government, which was not expected for several years, the Conservatives having just gained power; for the meanwhile, he sat on Committees of the House and gained a reputation as ‘a sound man’.

  Magnus had never possessed the least interest in politics, not even in the Navy’s internal warfare, so had to enquire of his acquaintances exactly what ‘sound’ implied. They had informed him, with more or less wit, that such a man thought the right way on every issue, and certainly never, ever, came up with a new idea of his own, or espoused novelty in others. Eskdale was a safe man, because he was entirely predictable and could be relied upon to take no risks even in thought. He was not, it was expected, in line to become a Prime Minister, but he might well climb to senior rank – the Foreign Office perhaps, or Minister for War, would be well within his compass. It helped, Magnus was told, that his brother was also a tall man, and cultivated a very fine moustache and was a good shot when the grouse moors were open – all of these attributes made him a man to be followed.

  “But, he is as boring as Hell,” Magnus had protested.

  “Exactly, dear boy,” had been the response. “One never needs fear that Eskdale will say anything upsetting, or think of an original comment.”

  Lord Eskdale could not understand his younger brother – the boy had always been restless, wanting to ‘do things’. A gentleman had no such need, Eskdale thought. As for his womanising – that was quite incomprehensible. Eskdale knew that his own political career demanded that he take a wife, a hostess, and a mother to a respectable, well-behaved, handsome son or two, and possibly daughters as well, though they did not really count in the scheme of things. He was making his selection even now, having decided to wed in his thirtieth year – there were four debutantes on his list, being winnowed through before his favoured eventual choice should be informed of her great good fortune. It was necessary, of course, that she should already be of fortune, in the financial sense, for Eskdale could not afford to hold house himself. Eskdale was not entirely certain that he wished to share his existence with a woman – he still remembered two of the junior boys from school with a deal of affection – but it was necessary to his career and one could make greater sacrifices, after all, and extra money in his life might well compensate for the extraneous inconveniences, such as the need to father his children. His young brother, he knew, could not comprehend the very concept of sacrifice, of surrendering to a greater imperative than one’s personal desires; more shame, he.

  It was, Eskdale considered, much for the best that Lord Magnus should be sent away from the Mother Country. A decade or two of service in the Empire would do the young man good, and if unfortunately he should not survive, well, that might be a blessing in disguise; if he did come back, no doubt he would have achieved maturity. It was for the boy’s own good, he had known, as he discussed his future with the Second Lord of the Admiralty.

  Oriental called at her list of ports on her way to the Far East, delivering her cargo, primarily textiles, cottons from the industrial northern parts of England, the foundation still of England’s wealth. Magnus remained on board through the Mediterranean and the Canal – he knew these parts from previous service. He noticed that Miss Blantyre went ashore, guidebooks in hand, almost certainly dragging her companion through an exhausting addition to her own education.

  Mr Cecil noticed his distant interest, was faintly amused.

  “Handsome young gel, that one, Lord Magnus. Worth a million and more, I am told, and well aware of the fact. Not much of a family, mark you, third generation from the gutter, but no doubt her uncle, the eldest of the clan, will purchase his barony before too long, then the next born will be respectable. Too much of chapel and good works, for my taste, sir!”

  Magnus laughed and agreed.

  “I have no need for a wife while out on the China Station, sir, and am hardly the sort of catch that young lady might be angling for. Younger sons with no prospects have very little to offer. I must amend my fortunes before casting my eyes to such heights, and that, for a naval officer, is hardly a practical prospect.”

  “You are quite right, of course, Lord Magnus. Mind you, sir, more than one young officer has chosen to send in his papers and enter a more commercial life in Eastern waters. It is possible still to pick up a pretty fortune on the China Coast.”

  Magnus shook his head – he did not think he was the stuff that millionaires were made of. As much as anything because he could not regard money as especially important; he had better things to do than fatten his wallet.

  Mr Cecil agreed; he had entered upon his career in the Foreign Office for a wish to serve his country. He could, he said, have taken a post in one of the big banks and made a fortune there, but he could not see it was an occupation for a true gentleman.

  “When all is said and done, Lord Magnus, it’s money-grubbing, and that’s not what an honourable man is about.”

  “Well said, sir.”

  They stood under the shelter of the awnings erected over the deck as soon as they had entered the Red Sea and its insufferable heat, thankful for the wind generated by the liner’s steady fifteen knots, unaware of the very existence of the stokers below decks whose exertions made the speed possible. The temperature in the stokehold was in excess of one hundred and forty degrees Fahrenheit – but they did not know that.

  “A brief call at Aden, the First Officer tells me, Lord Magnus. A small party of passengers to drop but no cargo. Off for Bombay as soon as possible.”

  Aden was renowned as one of the least pleasant ports of call on the voyage east – hot, dry, barren and boring, its sole justification being its position in control of the Red Sea and hence the Suez Canal.

  “Who is to suffer here, sir?”

  “Officers in the Merchant Navy, I believe. One of the lesser lines – a cargo carrier of some sort that limped into port with some disease aboard, all of the mates and the captain dead or dying and needing to be replaced. It happens occasionally. Yellow fever or plague or something like. I saw a report before I boarded in Southampton – she had called in at the smaller ports of Siam and Burma both, picking up teak and rubber and various oddments, and some sort of pox as well, it seems.”

  They shrugged – disease happened, it was part of the Orient, incurable very often. It was a matter of luck, joss the old hands called that.

  Magnus had never visited India, stretched his legs ashore in Bombay, happening, coincidentally he thought, to venture down the gangway at the same time as Miss Blantyre and her companion.

  “Are you to visit the sights of Bombay, Lord Magnus?”

  “To an extent, Miss Blantyre. My main aim in coming ashore is to visit the Club and discover whether any of my brother officers are in port. It is always as well to listen to the latest news from China. I presume you are to see the sights, ma’am?”

  “In part, sir, and also to observe the peoples of India, said to be a fascinating sight in themselves, sir, there being so many different sorts.”

  “You may well be right, ma’am. I have never studied the science of humanity.”

  She
nodded and moved off, not saying that she suspected he had never studied at all. He was an irritating man, she thought, with a reputation that said all that was bad of him, but quietly well-mannered when they happened to exchange a few words. Wildly handsome as well, but not the sort for her to be interested in, however…

  There was nothing in port, it transpired, the Navy busy on the Burma and Malay coasts where there was yet another upsurge in piracy. Some sultan or rajah or some such was feeling poverty-stricken and had decided to take the easy way to a fortune – the age-old story; the Navy would discover who he was and where and would sink his pirate ships and quite possibly hang him from the gateway of his own fort. All would be dealt with in quick order and peace would be restored until the next one came along.

  ‘They never learn’, Magnus mused. Time after time, some petty princeling would decide that he was of importance and would flex his military muscles, and then would find out that he was wholly insignificant in the Queen-Empress’ enormous Empire. A great pity that the rulers of the lesser races could not come to learn their place without the need for a little war first. So much hardship for their people – less commonly for them – and all to be avoided, if only they would lower themselves to learn.

  He reflected that it was in many ways fortunate – the Navy would have far less to do if it was not needed to keep the Imperial peace. That led, inevitably, as he took a second Pale Ale in the Club, to consideration of the Navy’s other function – the maintenance of a Fleet in Home Waters to match, to outmatch in fact, all of the remainder of the world’s navies.

  ‘France, Russia, Germany and America’, he said to himself. There was no telling which might be Britannia’s next enemy, or ally. Mr Cecil might have something to say to that, he would turn their conversations in that direction, just in case it became necessary to know what was happening in the greater world.