The Shanghai Incident

by Bryan Methods

  “I . . . did learn a lot in France,” I said.

  “You also saw a fellow get shot,” said Father. “It doesn’t sound like fun and games.”

  “As long as Mr. Scant’s with me, I’m not afraid,” I said.

  “I think I can make arrangements with the school,” said Father. “It’s not so uncommon for children to have to travel for a time.”

  “Perhaps the Valkyrie herself could join you?” said Dr. Mikolaitis.

  “Me?” said Miss Troughton. “Oh, no, no, I couldn’t. If you need me here, I’ll come at a snap of the fingers. I’m in your debt for not turning me in to the Yard. But I can’t just leave the shop and go to China.”

  “You have your duties, and we won’t keep you from them,” said Father. “I suppose, then, I’m sending my only son off to the other side of the world. Scant, you’d best keep him safe.”

  “I swear it on my life, Sir.”

  “That’s what I like to hear. Now how will we get you there?”

  “Ah!”

  We all turned to Mr. Beards, who I had all but forgotten was there.

  “This is where I can help,” he said triumphantly. “If it’s a long journey you’re wanting, there’s only one thing for it. An airship!”

  VII

  To Shanghai

  Beards’s eyes were brighter than sapphires as he spoke about the future of dirigibles, of how the skies would soon be crowded with them bumping and buffeting against one another, and how the Royal Navy was building airships that would put the Germans to shame even as we spoke. Even so, we soon learned flying all the way to China in one go was impossible—the most ambitious aeronauts had travelled only about half that distance.

  Nonetheless, Mr. Scant, Victor, and I boarded Mr. Beards’s airship, Oberon, along with Beards himself. The ship was emblazoned with Beards and Binns Dirigibles, but with and Binns hastily and inadequately painted over. Other than this blemish, the ship was a fine sight to behold. However, actually stepping aboard the thing filled me with a sense of foreboding. It was not so much that we were leaving behind England and friends and loved ones and schoolwork and readily available tea, but the fact that I had not the faintest inkling what awaited us at our destination. China was on the other side of the world, and to me, a place of fairy tales. Mr. Scant archly told me that the China I had read about in the story of Aladdin was nothing like what we would see in Shanghai.

  Riding in the airship was an odd experience, much like being at sea, though when the wind blew hard, it was even more terrifying than a great wave catching a ferry. We cleaved a path through the clouds, up above the grayness, which, once underneath us, looked solid enough to stand upon. The capacious Oberon was far more comfortable than the hot-air balloon in which I’d ridden some months back, but of course we would be stuck inside the airship for far longer. Victor had apparently been unprepared for the length of the journey, but we had brought many English picture books and board games with which he could pass the time.

  We travelled for six days in this manner, stopping several times to gather supplies and so our pilot, Mr. Beards, could sleep. I developed a habit of sleeping while we were in the air, as Mr. Beards was prone to loud snores. Our sense of the time of day gradually left us as we crossed the globe. I developed a habit of sitting by the iron door, where I fancied there was a very slight breeze, though Mr. Beards told me it was from the sophisticated air-circulation system and not from outside. Meanwhile, Mr. Scant had grown serious about his new role as an educator, and I spent much of the trip reading The Pilgrim’s Progress, memorizing declensions, and perusing a history of China, found on short notice, that ended in 1644.

  Mr. Beards flew us to Egypt, making a point of flying low over the ancient pyramids before we landed at the Suez Canal. He also shared stories of having lived in Africa for a time when he was a young man. I had difficulty imagining Mr. Beards as a young man, and even when I imagined him as a child, he always had that same puffy white beard. From that point onward, the airship was packed onto a steamer, which took us on to Bombay. Our route, I noted, was very similar to that taken by Mr. Fogg in Around the World in Eighty Days, only with an airship. Things had progressed since Mr. Verne had written that book, so our progress was swifter—it took us only nine days in total to reach India, with plenty of stops for provisions and bathing.

  There, we were met by a contact of Father’s named Mr. Siddiqui, who was very accommodating and gave us delicious sweet tea and even had some custard for Victor. He had the equipment to re-inflate Oberon and graciously restocked our provisions. He even gave Victor a small square hat decorated in jewels Mr. Siddiqui had worn for a durbar—which I gathered was some sort of important event for the old king—which Victor happily exchanged for his French sailor’s cap. Our host also asked after Mother, and it pained me slightly to remember how bewildered she had been that Father had insisted I begin an educational venture in China so soon after my trip to France.

  As he had intended from the outset, Mr. Beards stayed with Mr. Siddiqui and his acquaintances to discuss new business deals. This meant Mr. Scant was entrusted with the dirigible’s controls. Of course, Mr. Scant showed no sign of apprehension, but the journey was noticeably bumpier than before.

  “Can’t you keep things steady?” I asked Mr. Scant after a particularly large lurch sent Victor and me tumbling against the table where Mr. Scant had laid out a map.

  “I’m doing my best, Master Oliver. This isn’t as simple as it may seem.”

  The journey to Shanghai took several more days, and the next time we stopped to make camp, we barely saw a soul. Those who came to take curious looks at the airship quickly rushed away if they saw us, which was a shame because they looked like they would be interesting people with stories to tell, though likely not in English. During the trip’s last leg, I struggled to discern when India became China, so it almost took me by surprise when we reached Shanghai.

  Unlike our stop in India, there was nobody to meet us when we reached Shanghai. Mr. Scant left the airship in a dockyard, locked the gondola door, and simply walked away from the vehicle. “Should we not deflate it?” I asked.

  “We don’t know how long we will be here, whether the balloon will be stolen the moment it can be hauled away, or whether the locals will be honor-bound to leave it untouched. We may even need to make a hasty escape. If the authorities question us, would we be able to explain our situation? For my part, I know not one single word of Chinese, be it Cantonese or Shanghainese. I have been studying the writing, but with no one to tell me the sounds, I was unable to learn the spoken language. I do apologize for this lack of foresight.”

  “So we’re just going to leave the airship there and hope for the best?”

  “Yes, Master Oliver. Though from what I read on the way here, people may not be so happy to see the foreign dirigible. Or, indeed, the foreigners from inside it.”

  It didn’t take long to understand what Mr. Scant had meant by this. As we walked from the river into the city proper, I began to appreciate we were in a place far more unfamiliar and bewildering than the streets of Paris. My French may have been limited, but at least I could read the signs around me and have a good stab at pronouncing the words. Here, there was plentiful lettering on the flags and shop signs, but I couldn’t read a single character.

  The locals all stared at as we passed, especially at Victor, with his long, unruly hair spilling out from under the little square hat Mr. Siddiqui had given him. Some of the people watching us seemed curious and nodded in greeting, but most frowned or looked away as though they had seen something distasteful. People dressed differently and moved differently here, and I realized I had—perhaps stupidly—expected everybody to be the same age. I anticipated a country full of men of about thirty-five years old, dressed in silk Chinese jackets with their hair in a braid called a queue. But there was the same variety in Shanghai as anywhere else in the world—men and women, young and old, slender and portly, well-groomed and unkempt. Children came r
unning to look at us, and the elderly with bent backs glanced up at us as they shuffled past. Some men wore Chinese-style shirts with the knots instead of buttons, but others were clothed in Western-style jackets or suits. Many of them did wear their hair in queues, but others had their hair cut short, and those locals seemed to be the ones who scrutinized us most closely.

  “Why are they so suspicious of us?” I asked, as a rickshaw clattered past.

  “That’s rather a long story, Master Oliver,” said Mr. Scant. “Are you not too hot in your jacket?”

  “It’s a little warm, but I’m fine.”

  “If you remove your jacket, young Master Victor will do the same, and I think he will be more comfortable.”

  Amused that Mr. Scant had called him “Master Victor” instead of “the boy” or “the urchin,” I looked down at Victor, who, as though on cue, squirmed uncomfortably in his jacket and tugged at his collar. I helped him out of his jacket, handing it to Mr. Scant, but for my part, I kept my jacket on. I wanted to make a good impression.

  “Now, Mr. Scant,” I said, turning the conversation back to the suspicion that seemed to encircle us, “we have time for a long story, don’t we?”

  “I’m not sure, Master Oliver,” said Mr. Scant. “I’m rather hoping that if we walk around conspicuously, at some point we will be accosted by somebody who speaks English and wants to know our business. Though, short of that, our first port of call ought to be the embassy.”

  “I don’t have the sense they’re staring just because they haven’t seen foreigners before.”

  “Indeed not,” said Mr. Scant. “Shanghai is an important port city. A considerable amount of trade takes place here. I’m sure these citizens have seen visitors from more countries than the people of Tunbridge Wells. French, German, Italian, Japanese, American.”

  “Americans?” I said. “Do you think we’ll see cowboys?”

  “I . . . can’t rule it out,” said Mr. Scant.

  “Goodness,” I said. As we reached the thick of the city, fragrant smoke billowed out of vents above dark windows like mists from the North York Moors, and stall owners called out to passersby in loud voices like the vendors in Borough Market. Still, there was no mistaking Shanghai for England. Horse-drawn carriages clattered past, but most people seemed to careen by us either in rickshaws or on small platforms around the front wheel of some sort of adapted wheelbarrows.

  “If foreigners are so common, why are they staring at us?” I asked.

  “From what I read in preparation for the journey, this is a tense time. The country is on the brink of revolution.”

  “Revolution?” I asked. “Like in France? That would be terrible. A lot of people died.”

  “Well, those who want revolution might tell you things are terrible now.”

  “They don’t look so terrible.”

  “I don’t suppose every street in Paris looked terrible before the fighting, either.”

  “You’re scaring me a little,” I said. When Mr. Scant made no reply, I added, “I still don’t see what this has to do with the way they’re looking at us.”

  “Unlike other great revolutions, the one on the horizon in China looks to be brought about by the presence of foreigners. And its wrath may reach foreigners as well.” We rounded a corner onto a busier road, and a Westerner passed us, doffing his hat. Mr. Scant made a small bow, but the man hurried on without a word. With a disappointed sigh, Mr. Scant went on. “By the looks of things, we do have time for the longer version. You are probably aware of the so-called Opium Wars.”

  “I’ve heard of them.”

  “Not a pleasant business,” Mr. Scant said. “I am no history teacher, but as the onus is upon me to act as a tutor, I will explain to the best of my ability. The Opium Wars were, in essence, a strategy to force trade on a nation that had never needed it. China is a large country that was quite able to feed its people, craft its own beautiful arts, and mine precious metals and jewels for the wealthy. Other countries coveted the materials created here, but what to trade to a country that needed nothing? And so these countries created a market—a market for opium. Weak-willed people put it in their pipes to forget the pain of their lives, but they’re left with a still greater pain, and they need more and more.”

  “I’ve heard about addiction,” I said. “And I’m not just talking about Victor and custard.”

  “Custard?” said Victor, looking around in excitement before I shook my head.

  “The Chinese made opium illegal,” Mr. Scant continued, “and refused to change this position even as its use became widespread. The people wanted opium, and they went to the British and Americans for it, even if selling it within their home country was punishable by death.”

  “It seems very wicked to use something like that just to have something to trade.”

  “Wicked, yes,” said Mr. Scant, “but money is tempting, and after all, there were eager buyers. Very eager. The emperor himself took notice and sent an official to deal with the problem. The official decided to confiscate all the opium he could find from British merchants—more than a thousand tons. He had five hundred men work for more than three weeks to destroy it all and throw it into the sea. This did not sit well with the British merchants. Considering it theft, they brought in gunboats. The Chinese had great riches but next to no way to resist British naval power.”

  “Britannia rules the waves,” I said. The words sounded bitter all of a sudden.

  “Just so, Master Oliver. Then as now. And when the wars were over, the British could make whatever demands we wished. Millions upon millions of trade dollars were asked of the Chinese, to pay for the opium that was destroyed as well as for lost trade and the cost of the war. And then, on top of that, for favorable trading terms, including a huge port the British could control.”

  “Shanghai?”

  “Ah, no. It’s certainly open to foreigners today, but it’s not a British colony. I speak of Hong Kong. And soon after came the inevitable legalization of the opium trade.”

  “I think I see why people might be suspicious of visitors,” I said.

  “Oh, but this is not the end of the story,” Mr. Scant continued. “These wars took place a long time ago, and friendly trade has since flourished. Foreigners are not an uncommon sight in many cities like this one, and there is demand now for a wide variety of goods. But roughly ten years ago, a new conflict erupted. With trade opened, other Western countries came to China, seeking influence in this rich and important country. And with them came priests, spreading the word of Our Lord in a foreign land. After this, and plague, and droughts, the people of China grew angry. A kind of army was formed, called the Boxers.”

  “I’ve heard of them,” I said. “The Boxer Rebellion?”

  “Quite so. At first, the Boxers were rebels. But by 1900, when they gathered in Peking in great numbers and chased the eight or nine hundred foreigners here to one small district, the Empress Dowager Cixi—I’m afraid I am not certain if I am pronouncing that correctly—decided to declare war on all the foreign powers. At the time, I’m told she was more powerful than the emperor himself. But this time, the Chinese had forces beyond the British to contend with. There were Germans, Russians, even Japanese, all trapped in Peking and held as hostages.”

  “So what happened?”

  “The hostages were rescued, at a great cost to their captors. Eight countries united against China. Many died. Peking was torn to pieces; every treasure that could be carried away was stolen. And again, China found itself in a position with no power to negotiate. The Eight-Nation Alliance demanded reparations once more. Which brings us to today, where we find China no longer the country of untold riches it once was. For ten years, China has been paying the foreign nations for the mistake of rising up against them. In some ways, China belongs to foreign powers. Empress Dowager Cixi passed away three years ago, in the autumn of 1908. But on her deathbed, she chose Emperor Xuantong, as I think it is said. The current emperor.”

  “Is
he the little boy?”

  “Indeed. Much younger than you or even the young French master. I believe the emperor is five or six years old—the Chinese consider you a year old at birth, counting the time in your mother’s belly. The boy is not a leader and has no power to negotiate the debts of his country. That is why there is talk of revolution. Not because the boy is hated or cruel, but because of debt. Debts to foreign powers that derive from attempts to fight foreign powers.”

  “Poor boy.”

  “The emperor?”

  “Yes,” I said. “How can a little boy deal with problems like that? If he was born before all this, he would have had such a good life. Might have become a great leader. But now everything’s such a mess. And it’s not his fault.”

  “A sad situation,” Mr. Scant said, “but one many kings and emperors must face.”

  I nodded. “So what about us? How do we find Elspeth or Julien?”

  “I rather hoped we would have found someone to talk to by now.”

  “Oh, but you have,” came a voice from behind us. Mr. Scant spun around, his hand going to his hip, prepared to reach for the claw. Someone creeping up on Mr. Scant was no common occurrence, but as I looked around, I saw how it had happened. Instead of walking behind us, he had ridden slowly on his bicycle, making next to no sound at all. The man from Notre Dame, the contact from Scotland Yard who had told us to call him Jackdaw.

  “I do beg your pardon for not speaking up sooner,” said Mr. Jackdaw. “I was rather enjoying your insight into the hairy mess we have now.”

  “We saw you in France,” I said. “How did you get here?”

  Mr. Jackdaw produced two bags of chocolate eggs, one for me and one for Victor, who opened his at once and started to feast. “We have our ways, don’t you know? You certainly didn’t choose the quickest method to get here, though I’m sure it was more comfortable than mine. Or perhaps I’m just an identical brother of the Jackdaw you met in France. But you must call me Jackdaw too.”