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

by Wareham, Andrew

  “Slack, I believe.”

  “Then we shall take a cruise to Hankow, or further, sir. A few days of exercises will help no end. I would wish to take the whole flotilla with me on this occasion.”

  Captain Erskine allowed his irritation to show as he admitted that Magnus remained under the Admiral’s direct orders – he was not part of the Shanghai command and was free to sail as he thought best.

  “Coaling must be organised here, naturally, but that will be no problem. You will wish to delay a couple of days, I must imagine, Lord Magnus. There is a ball at the Club tomorrow evening which you should attend, to show your face and make your number with the bigwigs. The DSO makes you even more than normally notorious, just at the moment.”

  Decorations were rare, due to the generally peaceful state of the world since the Crimea. An officer with a piece of ribbon on his breast stood out.

  “Uniform, sir, or civilian dress?”

  “Uniform on this occasion. Bloody place is full of foreigners - French, German and Russian, all of them with their feathers and frills and furbelows, no doubt! We must show our presence as well, in our full glory.”

  “Ball dress for tomorrow night, Carter. Full fig!”

  “Certainly, sir. All is to hand. You will wish to enter Racoon today, sir?”

  “Frockcoat and cocked hat, Carter. Say for two hours from now. I must ask Mr Roberts to be so good as to send a boy to inform the Racoons that I shall be joining them. No sense to taking them by surprise. I hear they are in a bloody shambles in any case. No point to making it worse.”

  The reality was better than Magnus had expected – the officers were all aboard and sober; the ship was clean; the crew seemed willing – stood in lines as he stepped on deck.

  “Mason, sir, First Lieutenant.”

  The commissioned officers were all correctly dressed for the occasion, stood in order of seniority for the First Lieutenant to introduce them. Five lieutenants, two subs, two engineer-lieutenants, a Commissioned Gunner; eleven gentlemen in the wardroom, which was normal for a cruiser, but seemed a lot on this smallest of the breed. There were three midshipmen as well, at a glance one in his first year out of Dartmouth, the other pair with two or three years in; the senior warrant officers stood next to the mids included a gunners-mate, which was necessary with a heavy battery of guns.

  “Thank you, gentlemen. Carry on.”

  Magnus was led to his cabins – working, dining, sleeping, all larger than he had enjoyed on Bustard.

  “I gather that my predecessor made a fool of himself, Mr Mason?”

  “So it seems, sir.”

  “He left a note to that effect, which you discovered and sent to Naval Intelligence?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well done. That was exactly the right thing to do. Essential that the proper authorities knew just what was going on. I understand that Captain Erskine was not pleased with you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, sod him! You are my officer, and entries to your personal file are my responsibility. My investigation will show that you acted properly and that the first reaction was made in ignorance. Your prospects for promotion will not have been harmed. That said, what can you tell me about Racoon?”

  Mason informed Magnus that Racoon was heavily armed and lightly armoured, as was normal for any cruiser, but she was slow and cranky. The class of cruisers to which she belonged had been an experiment, a first response to the torpedo boat, and they had been a failure, but the ships existed and had to be used. Working on the big rivers, as a back up to the ordinary small gunboats, was one expedient. As an aside, Mason mentioned that a clerk at the Admiralty couldn’t spell, hence the ship was ‘Racoon’, not Raccoon, the correct spelling.

  “I see. So, we have a scrap-iron flotilla, Mr Mason, raised in the expectation that there will be major disorder in China and that we shall have to put a good few guns together to come to the rescue of the treaty ports and towns along the river, and possibly keep hostile armies out of Shanghai itself. Mountjoy, a modern twenty-seven knotter, is our runner, of course; then there is Mutine and the two Albacores who will form a unit at ten knots. Racoon is good for what, seventeen knots?”

  “She is rated at seventeen, sir, but I really would not wish to keep her at that pace for more than a few minutes. One must allow as well for the current of the river… In reality, sir, she might make good ten knots over a day. The other three, sir, would perhaps average five against the current, on a good day.”

  Magnus had been thinking of his new squadron as a fire-brigade, intended to respond quickly to any flare up of disorder. That concept no longer seemed entirely valid.

  “The four in company, then, while Mountjoy forges ahead to discover what is to be seen at far?”

  “Yes, sir. That might be more practical, sir.”

  “Interesting! Racoon will be required to supply a landing party on occasions, Mr Mason. Fifty men, in boots, and carrying rifles, which they have been trained to use. I saw no Marine officer?”

  “No, sir. The Marines were under a sergeant, sir, and were ordered ashore when we arrived here, sir. They are in the barracks as part of the defence of Shanghai.”

  “Annoying. Marines can be very useful on occasion. I shall contact Admiral Seymour and see if they may be returned to us. We have a light gun, according to the official listing; I presume it has a carriage and may be taken ashore?”

  “Yes, sir. A twelve-pounder with carriage and limber, to accompany a landing party, sir.”

  “Very good. How often exercised?”

  “Not frequently, sir.”

  “Amend that state of affairs. We must identify men to work up as our shore party. Eight must be trained as the gun crew and another sixteen to transport the gun and limber ashore by boat or across a wharf, to pull the ropes to run it overland and to carry rifles as a guard. Twenty-four in total, which should be sufficient for a light twelve-pounder. A lieutenant and a midshipman in command.”

  Mr Mason glumly noted the orders; they were easily given, but might be hard to implement.

  “I shall discuss gunnery practice with the Commissioned Gunner, of course.”

  “Have you a list of defects? Does Racoon need time in the dockyard? I suspect that we shall be well-advised to bring Racoon up to scratch this year, for having very little time spare thereafter. Are you satisfied with the officers?”

  The interview then followed its normal course, with Mason leaving the cabin after nearly two hours in a state of near-shock and with a great list of tasks to be completed instantly, but also feeling hopeful that there might be action and a chance of promotions all round. An hour later he accompanied Magnus on a tour of the ship, examining everything on deck and below, Magnus picking up on the fact that there was a great mass of Chinese workers on board.

  “How, who and why, Mr Mason?”

  “Well, sir, it is quite usual on the river, sir. Rations are often bought in locally, sir, so it makes sense to hire on cooks who know the local foods, for all of the messes. Then, sir, it is a question of face, sir. White men should not be seen performing menial tasks, sir – so we have the dhobi boys to work the laundry, and labourers to scrub and clean the decks, sir. Then, sir, the stokers have ‘assistants’, and the engine room itself employs a few as oilers and greasers and to keep the spaces clean, generally…”

  “That does not answer the question of ‘how’, Mr Mason. Where does the money come from?”

  “Well, sir, mess fees pay part of the cost, and the men chip in for their laundry, sir, and many of the Chinese hands work for their meals and nothing else. Add to that, sir, there seems to be presents made every so often, from merchant houses who appreciate the Navy putting gunboats in the proper places to protect their interests. That’s the way things are done here, sir. Not all ships join in, sir, but most do.”

  It was China.

  Magnus shrugged and made no attempt to change the way things were done.

  “Please beg the commandi
ng officers of Gannet, Shearwater, Mutine and Mountjoy to join me for drinks this afternoon at four. We must all meet each other. Yourself to be present, if you please.”

  The captains were all lieutenants-in-command and his juniors, which, he presumed, was why the ships had been given to him.

  Magnus was glad to have the excuse to leave the ship late next afternoon, off to the ball, and away from his desk and the great mass of papers and dockets demanding to be read and signed. He could sometimes take the risk of signing papers unread, and many captains did so, but on entering a new ship it was wiser to discover just what was going on. He had already come across two very unsubtle frauds relating to the rum issue – small amounts, a gallon a day perhaps, but that mounted up to a handy few sovereigns in some warrant officer’s pocket. He had placed the papers in Mr Mason’s hand and had requested full investigation, with the threat of calling in the Provosts if the crime could not be solved by their own endeavours.

  Carter adjusted the tails of his coat, made sure their set was correct, and gave his linen a last inspection and ensured that the bow-tie was correct and the collar properly fastened. Naval uniforms were the most difficult of all for a servant – they had proliferated over the years and the fully dressed lieutenant or commander or post-captain now needed - according to the fashionable tailor, Holding - seventeen separate sets to meet all eventualities. Magnus, a scion of Mayfair, was fully equipped, despite the cost, and had no doubts that he would be among the more elegant officers present.

  His tonga dropped him off at the Club at the appropriate time, neither among the first nor the last to arrive, and he strolled inside, nodding to the flunkeys at the door.

  “Commander Lord Magnus Campbell, captain of Racoon.”

  They glanced at his face, imprinting it in their memories in one swift look; gentlemen greeted by name were far more likely to find a tip.

  The building was opulently elegant, by intent, and actually achieved impressive vulgarity.

  ‘A helots’ playground’, Magnus thought, rather taken by his own wit. He saw naval uniforms of the right nationality, and angled towards them, around the dance floor, as yet sparsely populated.

  “I say, Lord Magnus. Ball dress! I have not seen that outside Portsmouth or London – you will certainly be noticed by all eyes.”

  “One must set some standard, Captain Erskine. I have a reputation to maintain, after all.”

  “One might have thought that ‘live down’ was a better way of expressing that concept, Lord Magnus.”

  Captain Erskine set about the obligatory task of introductions – tedious but necessary. His own captains he already knew, but there were three other commanding officers he had not met, as well as a dozen of the richer lieutenants who could afford to be present at the function.

  They drank their first glasses of warm champagne – ice unavailable but no other drink convenable at a ball – and exchanged reminiscences. Most of the officers had met one another in passing in various ports and a few had enjoyed commissions together. The ballroom filled and they decided they must do their duty – no officer could lounge at the bar while young ladies lacked partners for the dance, it would have been ill-mannered and commented upon.

  Magnus smiled at the nearest without a partner and begged her hand for the dance as the band struck up a waltz. Dancing was taught at Dartmouth, was a necessary skill for the naval officer, and he was sufficiently competent to be acceptable. He returned the girl – some sort of merchant’s daughter, he had gathered – to her mother, smiling politely, and turned away, came face to face with Miss Blantyre. Courtesy demanded that he greet her and beg her to dance; he was surprised when she admitted to having no partner and stepped out with him.

  “You must meet my father, Lord Magnus. He has, of course, read of your exploits against pirates and the fortress near Hanshan – the local press has mentioned them at some length.”

  “My pleasure, ma’am. The gentlemen of the press do exist for the purpose of exaggerating and overstating the activities of their betters, who include at least ninety per cent of the human race. One can fairly assume that the great bulk of their reports will owe more to their imaginations than to fact.”

  “Very neatly said, Lord Magnus! My father has often said much the same, though not so felicitously expressed.”

  He laughed, appreciating her mockery, and the intelligence behind it.

  “Spoken, ma’am, as one who had up to now been so fortunate as not to be a subject of their reports.”

  “Then you must be pleased indeed, my lord, that these columns have been so flattering!”

  “Perhaps the word might be ‘surprised’, ma’am!”

  She was a magnificent creature when she laughed, Magnus thought, intelligent rather than merely clever. A pity to have come across her now, rather than in ten years when he might be a post-captain. She led him off the floor to her father.

  “Mr Blantyre; Lord Magnus Campbell.”

  “A pleasure, sir.”

  “Indeed, my lord. My daughter mentioned to me that you were posted to the river. I must offer my thanks for your service to her at Amoy.”

  “Duty, Mr Blantyre – the Navy will never ignore damsels in distress.”

  “Quite right, too. I hear a whisper that you are stationed here in expectation of some considerable trouble to come. That makes you even more welcome, of course, my lord. I cannot see it coming to anything, myself, but there are those who believe that there will be uproar. I don’t expect it, because the Chinese will lose so much by taking to war against us. We might – certainly would, in fact – lose money, but they would lose tens of thousands of lives.”

  “True, sir – but, I might suggest, sir, that those who would lead and organise the risings are not those who will be in the line of fire. It will be the old story – the masters will make their profits, in political terms, while their followers die under our guns. The little I have seen suggests that the mandarins will stand aside unmoved while the peasants die in their tens of thousands, and will then play their games and come out in profit.”

  Mr Blantyre was much struck, or so he said, by the wisdom of such words.

  “My girl told me that you were more than an unthinking man of action, Lord Magnus.”

  She blushed, Magnus noted.

  “It seems she is right. You must pay a call, Lord Magnus – you will always be welcome in my house.”

  “I am to take my little flotilla out tomorrow, sir, probably as far as Hankow for a few days, to get a feel for the ships and men and discover how best they may be used, if the occasion arises, as seems so likely.”

  “Well, my offices overlook the naval pontoons, Lord Magnus. Be sure that there will be an invitation to dinner on your return, my lord.”

  Magnus smiled and graciously accepted – it would have been churlish to do anything else.

  He danced with Miss Blantyre again later, and led her to the buffet, making a show of joy and pride in her company, as was, he told himself, no more than polite.

  He made his farewells in the friendliest fashion, looking forward to their dinner.

  He returned to his cabin smiling, and sat half the night in contemplation – if he attended the dinner, and then met her frequently in Shanghai society, which was almost inevitable, then he would be committing himself, would be wed before the year was out, for Mr Blantyre’s behaviour had made it clear that he would be acceptable as a husband. Presumably the decoration and his new reputation as a man of action had outweighed his previous failings. If he was not to be wed, then he must base himself up the river and hardly be seen again in Shanghai, which might be beneficial to his career, for there would be a chance of action for the flotilla. His function, however, as Admiral Seymour had clearly said, was to ensure the safety of the immediate approaches to Shanghai, and he really should remain in the environs of the city.

  If Eskdale was to wed – and he had only half-expected that he would ever do so, having judged him not to be a ladies’ man – then
he would be well-advised to look after his own future. An inheriting younger son had some position in society; a poor second son had none, and he did rather enjoy the milieu of Mayfair. A second son with a million pounds hanging on his arm would be welcome in any ballroom…

  He slept a few hours, woke up to the realisation that his carefree days were behind him. He must take a wife, and then deal honestly with her – he did not think he was the sort to take her money and run from his responsibilities. He was not a man of business – so he must become an admiral, to give his lady a place of respect at his side, rather than simply be the hanger-on at hers.

  He shook his head, somewhat amused at the prospect of entering man’s estate, to discover at the age of five-and-twenty that one could no longer remain a boy was to an extent chastening.

  “Mr Mason, I think we must smarten the old Racoon a little, sir. If we are to be a crack ship, which we definitely are, then we must look the part. I am sure we have white paint, in plenty. Sailing this forenoon, of course. Pass the word that I shall be watching the flotilla and will expect to like what I see. The flotilla is to be the best, Mr Mason – and its appearance will bear that out.”

  # # #

  Thank you for reading The China Station. If you get a spare moment, please consider leaving a short online review for the book wherever you can. The second book in the series is expected to be released in mid-2018. In the meantime, please take look at the author’s other books listed on the following pages.

  By the Same Autho

  r

  Man of Conflict Series: Youngest son of a wealthy English merchant, Septimus Pearce is an utterly spoiled brat whose disgraceful conduct threatens his family’s good name. His father forces him to join the army in an attempt to reform him, but even the disciplines of army life where he sees bloody action in three countries fail to exorcise his nastier character traits. Please note: This series is currently available to Kindle Unlimited subscribers.

  Book One Kindle Link http://getBook.at/Conflict-1