China Flyer

by Porter Hill

* * *

  The quarter-deck awning under which Horne had rested during his recovery from the head wound was once more brought out of the hold. Horne gathered his Marines in its shade to listen to the Chinese linguist, Cheng-So Gilbert, whom Governor Pigot had assigned to them as their interpreter in China.

  Of Chinese and English extraction, Cheng-So Gilbert was short and pudgy with tawny skin and shiny black hair hanging down to his narrow shoulders. Seated cross-legged on a red satin cushion, Cheng-So Gilbert explained, ‘The city of Canton is closed to all foreign visitors. You cannot go beyond the main gates.’

  ‘I thought Canton was China’s one port open to all foreigners,’ protested Groot.

  ‘Foreigners are welcome in Whampoa,’ answered Cheng-So Gilbert, his moon-face set in its habitual half-smile. ‘Whampoa is the port of Canton. But foreigners cannot go inside the walled city.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Babcock. ‘Are the buildings inlaid with diamonds and rubies? Are the streets paved with gold bricks? Are they scared we’re going to come along and take a few back home with us?’

  Cheng-So Gilbert explained patiently. ‘Canton is very plain by Oriental standards, mister. Some men even call it ugly. I cannot give you the true reason why outsiders are not welcome there, but I can repeat a reason I once heard:

  ‘Many years ago there was famine in the countryside. In Canton, many citizens tilled gardens and kept cattle. Hundreds of farmers flooded to the city to find food. That was when the walls were first built: to protect Canton from hungry outsiders.’

  ‘We aren’t going to steal rice.’ Babcock pulled his red ear. ‘We just want to take a look around the place.’

  ‘Ancestors make rules to be obeyed,’ Cheng-So Gilbert answered diplomatically. ‘But please do not feel you are missing anything by not seeing Canton, mister. As I say, the city is without architectural virtue. It is not a beautiful place. Also, the Cantonese shout at strangers. They are not a hospitable people. Believe me, mister, you would not be happy there.’

  Kiro spoke up from the other side of the circle. ‘You’d do well to believe him, Babcock. The Chinese do nothing but shout and scream. But they have so many dialects, even they do not know what they are all complaining about.’

  With an effort, Cheng-So Gilbert gave the Japanese Marine an amicable smile. ‘It is true, Captain Horne,’ he said. ‘There are many dialects in China.’ Closing his eyes, he clasped his tiny hands together and, bowing his head, confided, ‘I speak seventy-eight.’

  Babcock whistled. ‘That includes English?’

  ‘Of foreign tongues I speak eleven.’

  Jingee’s eyes widened. He prided himself on his knowledge of languages, but his tally was far below the number of tongues spoken by Cheng-So Gilbert.

  Ever the diplomat, the Chinaman continued, ‘But you do not need to understand people’s words to know when they do not want you in their city. The citizens of Canton will throw rocks at you. They will set their dogs on you. I have seen it.’

  ‘Dogs?’ Jud nudged Kiro. ‘Maybe I’ll stay aboard ship when he reach China. I don’t like dogs biting me.’

  Kiro laughed. ‘How do you like eating dogs? The Chinese find them delicious.’

  Babcock’s upper lip curled in disgust. ‘It’s true? Chinese eat dogs?’

  Cheng-So Gilbert answered, ‘Dogs are often served in China, yes, mister. My favourite dish, though, is a waterfowl which you will see in Whampoa’s harbour. You can recognise the bird by its warble.’

  Cheng-So Gilbert closed his eyes and, pursing his red lips, pulled on his Adam’s apple to make a long, gurgling sound.

  Horne joined in the men’s laughter, amused by the interpreter’s bird-call.

  He brought the subject back to safety. ‘You say it’s safe to walk along the wharves of Whampoa?’

  Cheng-So Gilbert nodded. ‘Yes, yes, Captain Horne. Whampoa is safe. Whampoa is very safe place. The Manchu desire free trade in Whampoa. You will be safe in Whampoa. In Whampoa you will see ships from many foreign countries. France. Denmark. The Netherlands. And, of course, England.’

  ‘How far is Canton from Whampoa?’ Horne asked.

  Cheng-So Gilbert pressed his tiny hands into an arch, dipping his head respectfully as he answered, ‘The distance between the port of Whampoa and Canton, Captain Horne, is eighteen miles.’

  The reply pleased Horne. It was the same number listed on the chart.

  Next to him, Jingee asked, ‘Please tell us about the island of Macao, Mr Gilbert. Is it near the port of Whampoa?’

  ‘Macao is located in the Pearl River estuary. From Macao pilot boats will escort the ship to Whampoa. The trip up the Pearl River will last a full day.’

  ‘Pearl River?’ asked Babcock.

  ‘The Pearl River flows from Canton down to the sea.’

  ‘With the island of Macao at the mouth?’ verified Groot.

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Do the people shout at foreigners in Macao?’ Babcock asked.

  Jud added, ‘And set dogs on you?’

  ‘No, no, no. Macao is controlled by the Portuguese. You are safe in Macao.’

  ‘Portuguese.’ Groot frowned. ‘Papists.’

  ‘It is true. The Portuguese have missions on Macao. The Jesuits have made good friends with the Manchu.’ Folding his hands, Cheng-So Gilbert added proudly, ‘I had the honour of studying at the feet of those learned men of God in black robes.’

  Horne made a mental note of the fact that his interpreter had been a student of the Jesuits.

  Cheng-So Gilbert continued, ‘In Macao, you must only be wary of the sampan people. They are full of tricks and will try to sell you everything. When they are not trying to sell you something, they might be trying to steal from you.’ He laughed. ‘The sampan people are despised and detested by all good Chinese. They not only move through Macao, picking pockets and stealing laundry, but they move about the coastline in their sampans, behaving like the Sulu pirates behave in their praus.’

  Questions bombarded the interpreter.

  ‘What are sampan people?’

  ‘Sulu pirates? Who are they?’

  ‘What’s a sampan?’

  ‘Tell us about pirates.’

  Cheng-So Gilbert held up the palms of his tiny hands as if to ward off the barrage of questions. Cheeks round and jolly as he laughed, he answered, ‘First, let me explain what I mean about the Sulus.

  ‘As you know, mister gentlemen, the Sulus are the most evil, most deadly pirates in all the east. The Sulus sail in the Sulu Sea in their long narrow boats called “praus”.’

  ‘Sulu Sea?’ Groot, horrified, pointed eastward. ‘You’re talking about the sea at the other end of Borneo? On our sailing route?’

  Babcock frowned. ‘We’re not sailing anyplace with no wind, cheesehead.’

  Cheng-So Gilbert turned to Groot. ‘The Sulu Sea lies to the east of the South China Sea. North of the island of Celebes.’

  ‘And there are pirates there?’ asked Jud.

  Kiro leaned forward. ‘The Sulus are known pirates around the China Sea.’

  The other Marines looked at Horne, memories of the Malagasy attack fresh in their minds.

  Wanting to keep the subject on China, Horne turned to the interpreter. ‘You warned us about sampan people, Mr Gilbert,’ he said. ‘Can you expand a little on that subject.’

  ‘Sampans, as you know, are boats. Sampans have small reed cabins in the middle and do not venture out of sight of land. Since the Manchu Dynasty has come into power in my land, more and more people live on sampans than when the Ming emperors sat on the throne. One theory is that more people in China are homeless than before, that they must live on boats because they do not have land to live on.’

  ‘Who are these Manchu you keep talking about?’ asked Groot. ‘The new kings of China?’

  Cheng-So Gilbert once more digressed to explain how, in the previous century, Manchu invaders from the north had overcome the decadent Ming Dynasty. The Manchu were keen businessmen,
he told them; they had devised a plan to control market prices whereby they stored imported goods in sheds on their arrival in China, keeping them under lock-and-key until all foreign ships had docked, thus avoiding fluctuating prices.

  Horne did not know how much of this was true, nor how these snippets of Chinese history could be put to use in the search for the China Flyer. Nonetheless, he listened with interest, intrigued by Cheng-So Gilbert and his stories.

  For some reason, however, he did not wholly trust the roly-poly man. Why?

  While Gilbert was explaining the Chinese respect for ancestors, Horne heard a hubbub rise from the bows.

  Looking beyond the port beam, he saw a splashing break the smooth surface of the sea, and a swimmer waving back to his friends on deck.

  Damn! Who was disobeying his orders by going swimming? Horne jumped to his feet.

  The other Marines followed down the ladder, Cheng-So Gilbert lagging behind, his red satin cushion under one arm.

  Horne pushed his way through the crew, immediately recognising the man in the water as the Malayan who had bragged about being able to swim.

  ‘You damned fool,’ Horne bellowed through cupped hands. ‘Get back here.’

  Laughing, the man splashed and waved at Horne, calling, ‘Swim-swim.’

  Frustrated, Horne looked around him. He could dive into the water and try dragging the man aboard. If he resisted him, he could knock him unconscious, tie a rope round him, and haul him up over the side.

  Feeling a tap on his arm, he glanced round.

  Beside him, Jingee stood pointing at the sea.

  The crew had also seen the fin breaking the water; they began shouting at their friend, calling him to come back to the ship.

  No sooner had the swimmer turned to look over his shoulder to see what the others were pointing at than he disappeared beneath the sea’s smooth surface.

  Horne felt his stomach sicken as he watched the struggle that broke the sea’s calmness, the swimmer’s arm shooting up, then redness colouring the blue. More fins circled the spot where the swimmer had been.

  A silence fell over the Huma as the men lined the rail, staring helplessly down into the water; no sign remained of their friend—only blood colouring the smooth sea, and the fins of circling sharks.

  Chapter Thirteen

  THE PRAUS

  A torpor fell over the Huma after the killing of the Malayan swimmer. Horne knew better than to push the men for the remainder of the afternoon in the jobs invented to fill their idle hours. He suggested that Jud read from the Koran for the victim’s soul and then allowed the crew to settle under their sun shelters, to fish and exchange stories while they awaited the evening meal. When the supper of rice, fish and dates was finished, and the sinking sun coloured the still water in a lurid spectrum of purple and red, a Hindu began strumming a sitar and singing a dirge.

  The musician’s haunting voice drifted through the humid night as Horne sat behind the desk in his cabin, staring blankly at the motionless flame glowing on a squat candle. What could he do to raise the men’s spirits? There was ample drinking water, no imminent threat of running out of food, but the swimmer’s death had exacerbated the general lethargy. Should he organise them into teams to tow the Huma across the hammered-steel water in rowing boats? Make them at least think they were doing something to escape their trap?

  Then he turned to brooding about the nature of his search for the China Flyer.

  Governor Pigot had produced charts to replace those which Fanshaw had presumably taken from Fort St George. He had also assigned Cheng-So Gilbert as a translator to Horne, and given the Huma a small cargo of cloth and opium to present as a cumshaw to the Chinese officials in Macao and Whampoa. Horne had been granted full licence, too, in the way he chose to bring Fanshaw back to Madras to face criminal charges. Pigot had assured him that the monetary worth of the China Flyer would be divided amongst his crew if they brought the ship home as a prize.

  Those preparations and precautions were incidental, however, to the search itself. Had Fanshaw reached Canton by now, or would Horne have to scour far-flung islands and follow China’s meandering coastline? Pigot had set him no time limit; how long should he continue the search? It might take him years. Meanwhile Fanshaw could easily disappear to another part of the world.

  The Huma’s danger might be greater if Fanshaw had already arrived in China, for he could well be mustering support from the Chinese in anticipation of pursuit by the Bombay Marine. From what Horne had heard, Fanshaw was not a stupid man, unlikely to steal a ship from the East India Company and undertake such a bold venture without expecting repercussions. Anticipating that the Company would send the Bombay Marine in search of him, he might well be leading them into a dangerous trap.

  What did Fanshaw hope to achieve by taking a Company frigate? Horne wondered. Did he think he could steal Company gold without precipitating a hue and cry? Horne could not imagine any man risking a respected position within the Company hierarchy to abscond to a safe haven in China. Pigot might be correct: Fanshaw was going to China to make a fortune. But where would he live thereafter? Did he have highly-placed friends in England to protect him from the law? The East India Company certainly had the power to prosecute him there, and in India.

  On the other hand, Horne could understand a man venturing all for a truly audacious plan—such as setting out to establish a rival trading company. He would need rich and influential contacts in England for such an ambition, but they might also be ready to defend his actions against criminal allegations made by the Honourable East India Company. If such a plan proved to be true, Fanshaw would be using all his previous knowledge from the Company to enormous advantage, taking secrets and privileges to the new company like a traitor defecting to another country.

  Horne returned to his old complaint. Why didn’t the East India Company entrust him with more information, or at least discuss the issues with him? It was always so easy to despatch—and dismiss—a Marine.

  * * *

  The time was shortly after the first hour of the morning watch. Tossing fitfully from worry and the cloying heat, Horne had finally fallen asleep in his bunk.

  Hearing a call, he sat bolt-upright in the darkness, his nakedness covered with beads of perspiration.

  Had the cry come from the mainmast?

  Blinking in the dim cabin, he thought: Was I dreaming?

  The hail came a second time.

  ‘Sails ho … sail to north-east …’

  Pulling on his breeches and grabbing his spyglass from the rack, Horne bounded from the cabin. As he dashed up the companionway, he realised that if a ship was approaching the Huma, then, by God, there must be a wind in the vicinity.

  Daylight was bleaching the sky to the east, the early morning blackness fading into white, lavender, grey.

  Standing on the quarter-deck, Horne scanned the northeastern horizon with his naked eye but saw nothing, not even a pattern of ripples on the inky-black waters. Raising the spyglass, he studied the distant haze through the lens, but still he saw nothing.

  What had Jud spotted?

  Looking up at the mainmast, Horne’s eyes lingered on the topgallant. What was that? A flutter to the canvas?

  ‘Sail ho!’ hailed Jud. ‘Sails to north-east!’

  Around the deck, men were beginning to stir in their hammocks, word of an approaching ship spreading among them.

  Horne studied the horizon again, now feeling a breeze against his bare skin. But still he could not spot another ship. Below him, the crew was breaking into cheers as the sails began to flap, the limp moth-wings slowly coming to life. Babcock, Groot, Jingee and Kiro appeared at his side, as anxious about the approaching ship as they were excited by the rising breeze.

  Horne’s attention was caught by a distant serration. He passed the glass to Babcock. ‘What do you see?’

  The four Marines took turns studying the horizon; Groot handed the glass to Jingee, saying to Horne, ‘Schipper, there is more than one
sail.’

  ‘A bloody navy out there,’ growled Babcock, his eyes still swollen with sleep.

  ‘Possibly a fishing fleet,’ answered Horne, but there was little conviction in his words.

  Jingee passed the glass back to Horne. ‘The sails look slanted.’

  Cheng-So Gilbert had appeared on the quarter-deck behind the Marines. Horne handed him the glass, saying, ‘Give us your opinion, Mr Gilbert.’

  The interpreter studied the approaching line of ships and said, ‘Praus.’

  ‘Praus?’ repeated Babcock.

  Cheng-So Gilbert kept the glass to his eye. ‘Narrow ships with reed sails. We spoke about them this afternoon.’

  ‘Sulu pirates,’ remembered Groot.

  Cheng-So Gilbert surrendered the eyeglass to Horne. ‘There are many types of praus in these waters. The lateen sails of the Madrese. The square-sail outrigger from Borneo. The tilted double sails of the Sulu.’

  ‘Those are double,’ Kiro said, looking at the fleet drawing closer from the north-east, both extensions of its arms stretching back into the morning darkness.

  ‘At an angle to the mast,’ added Groot.

  Estimating that there must be more than fifty native craft in the approaching flotilla, Horne thought about running out the guns. The wind was rising too slowly to attempt an escape but the Huma could defend herself temporarily with cannon fire.

  Sometimes, however, it was wiser not to aggravate an enemy. In rare instances it was ill-advised to put up a defence which stood no chance of success. How could they hope to win against such a horde?

  ‘They must have been watching us all night,’ Jingee suggested.

  ‘Waiting for a wind,’ said Babcock, now totally awake.

  ‘Or for daylight to attack,’ added Kiro.

  Babcock looked at Cheng-So Gilbert. ‘Are you certain they’re Sulu?’

  ‘There’s not enough light to see the decorations which the Sulus paint on their boats.’

  ‘Look.’ Jingee pointed at the small navy.

  Three boats were emerging from the line, the middle vessel no longer than a canoe, the two escorts topped with a pair of rectangular sails rigged at a forty-five degree slant.