A HAZARD OF HEARTS

by Frances Burke

  ~*~

  Two weeks later HMS Hermes, carrying the Governor of Hong Kong, Sir George Bonham, docked at Nanking. While the representative of Her Britannic Majesty was frustrated in his endeavour to see the self-styled new Emperor of China in person, Pearl, now ragged and half-starved, slipped aboard the vessel, along with a group of eager sightseers. Avoiding the crew members trying to contain the unexpected crowd, she found a hiding place below deck where she stayed until the ship weighed anchor for the coastal city of Shanghai, far away to the south-east.

  Of course discovery was inevitable. When a shout of surprise was accompanied by a fierce jerk on her plait, Pearl rose uncomplainingly from behind the crate and allowed herself to be dragged on deck, to the accompaniment of a few kicks. She did begin to struggle when her captor thrust her head and shoulders over the side rail and looked about to throw her into the river, but a peremptory voice stopped his game.

  ‘Seaman, put that child down and explain his presence aboard one of Her Majesty’s vessels.’

  The sailor knuckled his forehead, while firmly twisting his other hand in Pearl’s plait.‘Stowaway, sir. Just giving him a bit of a fright, like, before taking him before the Mate.’

  ‘A stowaway, eh? Now, I wonder why.’ The speaker, young and elegantly dressed, was clearly accustomed to command. He rubbed his chin and looked amused, then beckoned to Pearl. ‘Come here, boy.’

  Feeling her queue released, no doubt reluctantly, Pearl approached the speaker. Here was authority, and she peeped warily from beneath lowered lids, seeking evidence of his character and temperament.

  His smile grew as she went down on her knees in obeisance, hands clasped before her.

  ‘Rascal,’ he said in fluent Chinese. ‘There’s no humility in you. I saw your face when you were being man-handled. My name is Meadows, and I’m the Governor’s official representative. So, who are you?’

  His brows rose as Pearl replied in perfect English,

  ‘I am a fugitive from the Tai Ping, honoured sir. I came aboard your vessel to escape the city before I was recaptured and executed. If, from the kindness of your heart, you will give me passage to the coast I shall remember your honourable name in my prayers.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be blowed. What cheek.’ The bosun, drawn by the interested group crowding around Pearl, stood hands on hips, glaring. ‘Give ‘im to me, sir. I’ll deal with the mudlark.’

  Meadows shook his head. ‘You still have not told me your name, boy.’

  Pearl drew herself up. ‘I am Li Po, honoured sir, the adopted son of Doctor & Mrs Morris Carter, lately of the Protestant Mission near Pai Hu.’

  ‘I see.’ Meadows fingered his chin once more. ‘I’ve heard what has been happening to the missions when the rebels pass through. You are a fugitive indeed. Were your adoptive parents killed?’

  Pearl’s lids hooded her dark eyes. She nodded.

  ‘Poor child. How old are you... eleven, twelve?’

  Again Pearl nodded, as if choked beyond speech.

  ‘Too young to fend for yourself. What would you do if I did permit you to stay with us as far as Shanghai?’

  ‘My brother lives there, honoured sir. He will give me shelter.’

  ‘Hmn. Well, I expect you eat little enough and you certainly don’t take up much space. You can stay aboard and make yourself useful to the cook. Bosun, the lad is not to be interfered with. He’ll sleep on deck, not in the foc’sle, and if any harm comes to him I’ll hold you responsible.’

  The bosun all but snarled, ‘Yessir,’ then turned to vent his aggravation on the crew, roaring orders as they scurried to their stations.

  Pearl bowed her forehead to the deck but Meadows pulled her up. ‘Don’t kow-tow to me, lad. A Western man stands on his two feet, wherever he is, or with whom, and you should do the same. Now, go to the galley. Say I sent you.’

  Pearl bowed. ‘Permit me to thank you, honoured sir. I shall make a special prayer to the Almighty for your protection.’

  ‘Eh? Oh, thank you.’

  Once assured of safety, Pearl enjoyed the two hundred mile trip through the fertile valley of the Yangtse. It was a broad river, often divided by thickly wooded islands. At this season the days were cool and dry. She spent her free time, of which she had plenty, up in the bows. There she watched the paddies and tiny farm fields glide by, the peasants gather the winter harvests of wheat, beans and barley, the water buffalo working or drinking at the river’s edge where long coarse grasses grew. There were fields of tobacco plants, orchards of lychees and mulberries and acres and acres devoted to rice-growing. A bountiful land where none could starve, unless ravaged by invaders.

  There was always something new to see: the hills above, looking down on every shade of green; the banks dotted with fortresses and pagodas; fishermen out in their sampans with cormorants fastened by one foot to a long string secured to a man’s wrist, each bird with a ring around the throat, tight enough to prevent it swallowing any catch. The men sat the birds on the edge of the sampan where they peered intently into the water, plunged suddenly, to come up almost instantly with a fish. They never seemed to miss, and they fought fiercely to retain the prey they could not eat. Pearl was rather sorry for them and thought the men deserved the fierce pecks they received.

  Her protector ignored her most of the time, keeping to the quarter-deck area reserved for the Governor and his entourage. Occasionally, however, he would spend a few minutes conversing with this oddity he had rescued. He was with her when they passed a tributary river crossed by a bridge hung with the bodies of several dead cats.

  Meadows was shocked out of his usual urbanity. ‘What in God’s name are they doing there?’

  Pearl hid a smile. ‘They are there to prevent the ghosts that walk by night from attacking travellers.’

  ‘Do you believe that?’

  Pearl shrugged. Her blood told her that such things were, while her training denied it. Sometimes she believed, sometimes not. She changed the subject. ‘I heard the men say we do not go as far as the river mouth, that Shanghai stands on a smaller river.’

  ‘That is so. Ships can’t pass the shallow sand bars in the Yangtze delta, but the Huangpu has a good channel to the sea. Shanghai is about thirteen miles upriver from the mouth. It’s an extraordinarily busy port, since the British forced it open.’

  Pearl had been taught that the trade treaties forced on the Chinese by Western countries were a good thing, since they had allowed the entry of missionaries, while the consequent flooding of opium throughout the country was accounted a necessary sacrifice. She had her own thoughts on the matter but kept them to herself as Meadows went on happily expounding the value of trade through the open ports.

  Another time they stood together watching a fleet of ‘slipper-boats’ manoeuvre past the Hermes, so-called, explained Pearl, because the ‘toe’ was closed in and the ‘heel’ left open where the rowers balanced. Something about her profile must have attracted Meadows’ attention. He exclaimed and turned her towards him, peering intently into her face.

  ‘Why didn’t I see it before? The skin is drawn tight over such exquisitely regular bones, the eyes, so beautifully shaped... You’re not a boy named Li Po. Who are you?’

  Pearl tried to pull back, shaking her head so that her braid danced.

  ‘No. Answer me.’

  She stopped resisting him and he let his hands drop.

  ‘My name is Pearl, but the rest of my story is true. I am travelling to Shanghai to seek my brother.’

  ‘And the fugitive story – the mission, the dead parents?’

  ‘All true.’ Pearl’s lips tightened. ‘It’s not safe to be female in this land. Twice I have been a slave. It will not happen again.’ Her hand darted inside her jacket, and the small, wicked blade flashed in the sunlight.

  Meadows gave a soundless whistle. ‘I believe you. You fooled me finely Pearl, but I can’t do much about it now. We’re coming up to Baoshan where we turn into the Huangpu River, and then it’s only a
bout another forty-five miles to Shanghai. You may as well stay aboard.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘I don’t know why I should worry about a little fire-cracker like you. You’ll succeed in whatever you try. But I’d keep a surly face if I were you. In repose your features show your sex.’ He went away, chuckling.

  The following morning Hermes anchored to the north of the walled city called ‘On the Sea’ and Pearl slipped ashore. Having a good understanding of the Triads, she knew they would not be long content to rest in Nanking. Shanghai would be their next conquest, and she intended to stay ahead of them.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Elly woke in darkness to another living nightmare. She lay flat on the ground, aching all over, her arm a fiery agony that burnt through to the bone. Moaning, she looked up into the face of a stranger, his face planed and shadowed by firelight, his eyes curiously intent as he stared into hers from a distance of a few inches.

  ‘Who… what are you doing?’ Elly shrank back as the man’s fingers closed on her arm like the bite of hot pincers.

  ‘This will hurt you. I’m sorry.’ His voice held a rough sympathy. A hot ember of wood appeared in the man’s free hand and dipped towards her.

  ‘Don’t! Don’t do it!’ Elly’s protest ended in a scream as awful, searing pain burst in her flesh and she fainted.

  ~*~

  Her mind seemed to float for a time, turning in lazy spirals that gradually ascended until she was aware of daylight and the drift of wood smoke and, overhead, the warbling notes of the magpies’ morning song. She lay still, savouring the comfort of warmth, peace, freedom from pain. Memories flitted across her mind, of the harsh sunlight on the track, of thirst and exhaustion – of the snake! She jerked involuntarily and a sharp twinge in her upper arm brought the memory vividly to life. She’d been bitten by a black snake. What had happened afterwards? There had been darkness and a man who frightened her, hurt her.

  Footsteps crackled on broken twigs and she looked up fearfully to see the stranger standing over her.

  ‘Awake at last. How do you feel this morning?’ His voice was reassuringly normal, of a pleasant deep timbre, without emotional inflection. It might have belonged to any educated Englishman. Nor did his tanned and shaven face reflect the passion of a madman who attacked people with burning coals.

  Elly’s momentary panic was dispelled by angry reaction. Heaving herself up onto her elbows, she bit her lip against a stab of pain, saying sharply, ‘Who are you? Why did you attack me?’

  ‘Attack! My dear young woman, you’re delirious. I’ll fetch you some water.’

  ‘Never mind the water. Answer me, if you please. I distinctly recall you brandishing an ember in my face before... before....’

  ‘Before cauterising your snake-bight and possibly thereby saving your life. Look at your arm, if you don’t believe me.’

  Elly glanced down at the neat bandage on her right upper arm and realised that, apart from that first jab, it barely hurt at all. ‘The treatment for snakebite is scarifying, then suction of the poison from the point of entry and washing with whatever clean liquid is available.’

  ‘Which I carried out, with the addition of a native remedy, cautery, followed by application of a herb and clay covering. I’ve know it to be efficacious.’ He squatted down beside her and she smelled the familiar mixed odours of wool, leather and pipe tobacco that had been her father’s particular aura.

  Soothed by the association, with her interest caught by this new bit of medical lore, Elly felt her anger dissipate. ‘Is it so? I wish I could have told my father. He always said he’d have liked to know more about native medicine, if only he could have communicated with the people. How did you discover the treatment?’

  ‘Oh, in my travels I’ve learned a thing or two.’ The man turned his head to whistle two notes, and the bushes beside Elly parted as a small brown body barrelled through in a flurry of barks and whipping tail to stop short, eyeing Elly enquiringly. ‘This is Pepper, famed as a snake catcher. And may I introduce myself also? Paul Gascoigne at your service.’

  ‘How do you do, Mr Gascoigne. Pepper. My name is Eleanor Ballard and I’ve remembered my manners at last. Thank you for saving my life. I couldn’t have survived another day on the track, even without the snake attack.’

  She studied him: a tall man of about thirty; broad, loose-limbed; dressed sensibly for the bush in boots, moleskins and a many-pocketed jacket. His lean face was intelligent and strong-jawed, and his eyes were a clear green verging on grey, with sun-creases at the corners. A mass of dark unruly waves needed cutting, unlike hers, thought Elly with a sigh.

  As for the man’s manner, he projected an air of confidence that was comforting to someone lately brought to the edge of extinction and not yet in a position to fend for herself. Nor did she feel the customary wariness of a woman confronting a strange male in isolated surroundings. Confronting was the wrong word. Paul Gascoigne’s self-possession, his attitude of ‘take me as I am’ required no proof of good intentions.

  He held out his hand. ‘Come, Miss Ballard. Rise and join me for breakfast. You may perform your ablutions down at the water hole beyond that stump.’ He handed her a cloth wrapped around a sliver of soap. ‘And then you may give me an explanation for your presence alone on the bush track, close to expiry.’

  Elly accepted his help to extricate herself from what must be his own bedroll, waiting until the world had steadied around her before taking the wash-cloth and making her way barefoot through the scrub to the water hole. This lay well back off the track, screened by mimosa bushes. Alone, she’d have passed it by, never knowing it was there. The pool, dark, cool and deep in the shadow of the gums, was so entirely inviting that, with a glance around, she removed her bodice and knelt to plunge head and shoulders into the water, scrubbing the worst of the dust and sweat from her hair and leaving it standing in short damp spikes all over her skull.

  Wriggling her top back over her wet chemise, she brushed down her gown while deciding how much of her story she would tell her autocratic saviour. Still raw from her recent ill-treatment by the people she had once called friends, she hesitated to expose her humiliation to a mere acquaintance. Then she shrugged at her reflection. There was precious little dignity left for her to clutch. Besides, she owed the man the truth in exchange for his honest help.

  Pushing aside a mimosa bush in full golden bloom she re-entered the small glade where a camp fire burned with a tripod and a billy pot on the boil. A saddle sat on a stump beside a couple of packs and a sheet of canvas hung across a branch, shielding the bedroll. As she watched, Paul Gascoigne took down the canvas and rolled it tightly, securing it with a leather strap. Elly heard horses grazing nearby and smelt the gum bubbling in the eucalypt branches on the fire. She stepped forward as Paul raised the pot lid.

  ‘Would tea suit you, Miss Ballard?’

  She thought his low-pitched voice the sweetest music she’d ever known. ‘Tea! I could die for a cup of tea. You can’t know how I’ve longed for one.’

  His face lightened in a half-smile which seemed to hover on the edge of commitment, then disappeared. ‘Well, hold onto life a little longer,’ he said. ‘The water has boiled already.’

  Elly sat on the bed-roll sipping from a steaming mug, watching the light change the trees from shadowed sepia to all shades of green against the dawn sky. She felt oddly content. Pepper lay in similar repose across her feet, his acceptance complete, while Paul Gascoigne moved about the camp, tidying and packing, soon to move on.

  Elly felt a flutter of panic at the thought. What about her? Would he take her with him? Where was he headed? To The Settlement? She couldn’t go back there. That life was finished. She had to start a new one, somehow, somewhere far away.

  When Paul brought his mug of tea and took a seat on a stump, with one eye on the bubbling porridge pot, Elly collected herself, ready for an accounting. But he forestalled her.

  ‘Miss Ballard, are there any others of your party lost and wandering in the bush? Should
I try to arrange a search?’

  Elly cleared her throat. ‘No. I had no party. I was alone.’

  His brows rose and he waited.Elly burst into her speech. ‘My story sounds incredibly strange, I know, but I beg you to believe it is true. I come from a small village called The Settlement, back in the hills above the Myall River. It services a cedar cutters’ camp and, as far as I can see, that’s its only reason for being. My... my father was the doctor. He trained me as his assistant, and when he died recently I took over his practice as well as I could.’

  Paul Gascoigne raised his mug and blew gently at the rising steam. Elly noticed his hands, long and muscular, burnt brown by the sun.

  He said, ‘This Settlement was singularly fortunate in having two medical people in residence.’

  Elly’s mouth twisted sadly. ‘One would have thought so. However, a newcomer, a so-called Doctor Harwood, arrived and set about undermining people’s faith in my skills. At first I felt there could be room for both of us, but he obviously did not. When I offered to act as his assistant he rebuffed me. I now realise he was waiting for the opportunity to discredit me totally.’ She paused. ‘He did so at the cost of a child’s life. Blaming me for his own incompetence, he swayed the people against me, turning them into a mob lusting for blood. They attacked me and drove me out, knowing that without help I would die on the bush track.’

  Paul Gascoigne dropped his mug. He bent to recover it, saying in an even tone, ‘I find it almost incredible. To do that to a woman.’

  ‘To anyone.’ Elly had turned fierce. ‘The one thing about this harsh country is the way it breeds bonds between folk for protection. We must stand back to back and face its hardships together. The people of The Settlement broke that bond.’