Nobody’s Child

by Andrew Wareham

  The architecture was strange to me – it seemed wholly out of place in China, the buildings following very much the Greek tradition of the classical colonnade with open balconies above the main, working floor. The factors had evidently chosen to add their own facades to the original buildings to display their wealth to the Chinese, who may or may not have been impressed. The factories were located in a specific area given over to the foreigners, at the edge of the Old Town on the riverside. They were not fortified, which made simple sense, the Chinese having such huge numbers that they could have overrun any walls set against them.

  There were seventeen buildings, despite being known as the Thirteen Factories, big places and too small for their needs. Many tons of the goods traded there were stored in hulks tied up along the wharves. Most were kept inside in the warehouses, but by no means all.

  Our boatman took us to the Chow-Chow Factory, where I received the first of many surprises. The factors, the merchants and the agents were a mixture of every nationality and race under the sun, or so it seemed. There were Armenians and Parsees and Jews and turbaned Sikhs and other little groups I had never heard of, all shoulder by shoulder in a mass of shouting bodies, all busy making their fortunes, or somebody else’s.

  I soon discovered that Chow-Chow meant a mixture, a melange of foodstuffs or other goods, all thrown together higgledy-piggledy. The Chinese had applied it to the people found in this particular big, and rich, building.

  Mr Ainslie’s man was expecting us, in the nature of things, and led us into his own little section of the building and put us away into a tiny living space next to his storage rooms, everything locked and barred and apparently hidden away. The place was dry but gloomy, a hive of brick rooms and low ceilings under storage lofts with few lanterns for fear of fire. The inside did not conform to the Classical elegance of the front elevation.

  The Factor’s agent – for want of a better English term – was known locally as a ‘shroff’, and what language that came from, none knew for certain. He was a brown man of medium height and slight build and forever active; even when seated, he twitched. I knew him for many years and never discovered his name, or his age, or whether he had a family – he was the shroff, and that was everything about him. Wealthier than ever I became, that I do not doubt, but wholly anonymous. I believe he was Armenian, one of the peculiar Christians who had the sense and good fortune to flee the Turks – there were thousands of them dispersed through the Orient, and a fair number in England, or so I later discovered.

  “You are Jackson? I am Ibrahim. You are to remain here tonight and the goods will be ready for you in the afternoon tomorrow. You will cast off in your boat as soon as you are loaded – better not to remain where you might be searched. Do not leave the building. Better not to leave this room, except for the necessaries, which you will be shown. There will be food, and a little to drink. Talk to nobody. Do not make a big noise.”

  The place a was howling bedlam, the better part of a thousand men in a vast warehouse, all shouting at each other – how our few men could attract attention was beyond me, but Ibrahim was nervous and it was wiser simply to agree.

  I called the men together and explained the rules. They listened and laughed wisely.

  “Pinched it, ain’t he, sir. The stuff what we’re going to be taking. It’s hot, ain’t it?”

  “Sounds like it, don’t it. Reason for us to keep our noses clean.”

  They agreed – we were too few to do anything other than guard against sneak thieves and I could not really see any sense in our being there. I suspected that I had been sent by way of a test, to see if I could be trusted out of sight in command of a group of dangerous and potentially wild men. Luckily, the men liked me and were willing to obey my orders, having given their opinion first of what those orders should be.

  We ate a respectable meal – well-cooked chicken, which was safe, and some sort of fish, which was less so. Never knew what the fish might have been feeding on in those waters. There was rice and vegetables besides, more than sufficient for our appetites, and some sort of alcohol that tasted very mild but kicked like a mule when it reached the belly. The men were much in favour of it.

  We slept a long night, being on land. None of us could sleep more than four hours unbroken at sea – the watch-keeping habit was ingrained in us. The morning was idle, which we did not object to so very much, and then in the afternoon the shroff called us to duty. We manned our boat and pulled off a few yards from the wharf and watched as a small sailing vessel was towed into our berth.

  Whistling Dick was an older man, had sailed these waters before signing on Jenny Dawes.

  “Lorcha, they calls them, Master Giles. See the lines of the hull? Clean and tidy, like a yacht. But she’s pole masted like a junk, with their sails on bamboo lifts that are pulled up from the deck.”

  I followed the explanation, could see that she was familiar to a Chinese crew, needed none of the topmen of the European square rigged ship.

  “Faster than a junk?”

  “A lot. Can’t carry so much, but she’ll take a small cargo a long way and quick. See a lot of ‘em out of Macao specially.”

  The old Portuguese harbour had a name for smuggling and general illegality, probably well-deserved.

  “What will that lorcha carry, Whistling Dick?”

  “By weight, Master Giles? Thirty tons, perhaps, but she won’t have that load aboard. Fast and light, that’s her trade.”

  “Then how do we keep up with her? We ain’t that fast, surely.”

  “No. She’ll go off ahead of us, Master Giles. People what’s interested are likely to go haring off after her. We just make our way quietly down to Whampoa, minding our own business, like. So I reckon.”

  It made no sense. I stared at the lorcha and then turned my attention inboard, checking that we had our rations and water barrel still. I noticed then that the two small wooden chests containing biscuits and cheese had become six, four of them under a loose tarpaulin cover.

  “And we make sure that we eat from the right boxes, do we, Whistling Dick?”

  He grinned.

  “Wondered if you’d notice that, sir. I don’t know what’s in ‘em, but I reckon we’d be well advised not to lose ‘em over the side.”

  “Captain Partridge made mention of imperial jade.”

  Whistling Dick whistled, which was not uncommon.

  “Worth more than diamonds. A lot more if it’s old pieces made by one of the great artisans, sir. Not just that, either. In the nature of things you don’t see much of it outside the imperial palaces. Stolen, well nigh of a certainty. Be glad when we get this lot aboard, sir.”

  Thinking on it, so would I be.

  The lorcha took her little cargo aboard and cast off. The shroff waited a few minutes then waved us away after her.

  “Oars as well as sail, sir?”

  Whistling Dick was anxious to make speed. I thought that might draw attention to us.

  “Just sail, we’re in no great hurry to get back to the ship. No reason for us to stir ourselves.”

  Our guide kept us in the mainstream on the return, furling sail and allowing the boat to drift through the night hours. The river was busy but we were undisturbed, apart from the occasional near-collision and the howling of obscenities that followed. We reached Jenny Dawes in broad daylight, all unhurried and pulling in to her far side, hidden from the shore.

  The boxes were carefully lifted up to the rail where they were gripped by two sets of hands each and carried down to Captain Partridge’s sleeping cabin.

  “And this is where we discover whether we have been played false, Mr Jackson. Mr Ainslie has laid out some thousands in good silver for these.”

  “Not payment for the opium, sir?”

  “No. Entirely separate transaction, or so I believe. With a different set of people, or so he told me. I am not privy to all of his dealings, nor is there reason why I should be. I am content to be a captain and no more. I am telling you this
at Mr Ainslie’s instruction, by the way. I believe he has some wish to bring you on in his service.”

  I wondered why. Ainslie had a family, sons of his own, had no need that I could see to take on another young man. Captain Partridge chose not to say more.

  “Are we to sail immediately, sir? Or is there a greater cargo due to provide cover for this?”

  “Perceptive, Mr Jackson. We load silks tomorrow, and possibly an amount of fine porcelain which is better sent in small consignments rather than packed in with other crates and chests in a larger hold. Sufficient to create an obviously valuable cargo that requires a heavily armed ship, such as ourselves. We have attracted a little of attention already, I rather fear. I have word that we have been watched by informants for one at least of the pirate fleets.”

  “Revenge, perhaps, sir? We did them some little damage on our last voyage. We lost Captain Marker, but we destroyed some of their junks and certainly killed a number of their people, including one at least of their older men, an admiral of sorts.”

  I told him the tale of the elderly gentleman being carried aboard, possibly for a last fight on an enemy’s deck.

  “That, I was unaware of, Mr Jackson. I shall have the word put out, try to discover who or what. Let us examine these boxes first.”

  The boxes were more than ordinary soft-wood cartons – they had been made by a skilled carpenter, tongued and grooved teak boards fitted together precisely, almost waterproof. They had been screwed down rather than nailed. They were lined inside with oiled paper, very thick and waterproof, and then with a heavy protective felt. The contents were themselves wrapped in woollen cloth and tucked into their own little boxes.

  “They certainly look valuable, sir!”

  “They do. Let us unwrap them.”

  I had never seen imperial jade, but the depth of rich green spoke for itself of the pieces’ rarity and quality. Dragons and little dogs and other animals, each design following the natural shape of the stone, I suspected. There were four seals, not the animals but the things they called ‘chops’, dipped in ink to give the official imprimatur to documents, but I much doubted these had ever been used for that purpose – they were too valuable, were a symbol of the power to make law.

  “Only the highest of imperial officials would carry these, Mr Jackson. If we are found with these in our possession, we are dead men – very slowly so.”

  “Price, sir?”

  “To a connoisseur? To a collector of such trifles? Who is to say? A rich Chinaman dwelling overseas might value them in the tens of thousands – of pounds, that is, not rupees. I doubt Mr Ainslie has bought these, Mr Jackson, despite the claim that he has laid out thousands; that is just part of the cover. One of the great criminal gangs, the triads, or tongs as they are sometimes called, will have stolen these and have their possession. Mr Ainslie is, no doubt, simply to provide transport. The local officials will think twice before searching us, will require a degree of proof before they do so. Once the theft is known, they might rummage every junk and Chinese owned lorcha in the general hope of finding something.”

  We wrapped the contents of the first box back in their packing and closed it very carefully. We did not open the other three, it being wiser not to be too curious, we thought. The boxes themselves we stowed in the corner of the captain’s cabin, tied down firmly so that they could not shift in the worst of storms.

  “What of these damned pirates, sir?”

  “Nothing to fear there, Mr Jackson, not if my surmise is right. We shall go ashore, you and I, and speak to the Factor. Having explained our fears, we shall leave it to him to make contact with the triad that has offered the contract to us – if they do exist, as I think they must. They will deal with the trivial – to them – problem of a pirate fleet.”

  I made no reply, knowing nothing of the triads but having some acquaintance with the pirates. I was not to tell Captain Partridge that he was wrong but had some doubts that he was right.

  The Factor was a harried little Welshman, a man with more work than he could handle and a constitutional inability to delegate responsibility to any underling. He rushed and ran and scurried from ledger to warehouse to wharf and back again, stopping only sometimes to rub at his aching belly and to give an acidulous belch. Poor little man collapsed and died just a few months later, leaving a small fortune behind and no heirs to inherit it – foolish of him! One of the very few I have known to literally work himself to death.

  Captain Partridge knew how to attract the factor’s attention – he literally stepped into his path and let him bounce off his own prosperous belly.

  “Mr Evans, I need five minutes of your time – in private, in your office. Now, sir!”

  Captain Partridge nodded to me and we hustled the poor little fellow into his office and sat him in his almost unused chair for the two minutes needed to acquaint him with the problem.

  “Well bugger I damn, Captain! They cannot do the like of that, look you. Fong!”

  The last word came out as a penetrating scream and was quickly followed by the presence of the interpreter who had taken us up coast a few days before.

  There was a quick exchange in one of the Chinese languages, totally unknown to me, and Fong ran off again.

  “He only runs because he thinks I want that of him, like. Good man, that one. Right, Partridge bach, all dealt with. Problem solved, you might say. Do not sail for three days, until I give you the word. The silks are due for the morning. There will be a barge with the porcelain, again, tomorrow. No word of the cargo being missed, like, not yet. If I hear of such, you sail whether loaded or not, but better you don’t.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Nobody’s Child Series

  Nobody’s Child

  “Mr Jackson! You and an escort of six men, to be an honour guard, as you might say. No muskets, pistols under their shirts, visible but covered for politeness’ sake. Go immediately ashore to wait upon the Factor.”

  I obeyed, asking no questions. If Captain Partridge had had more for me, he would have said so – he was not one for looking important by withholding information until he was begged to disclose it.

  Maneater pulled together the same four and we climbed into the boat with Fred at my shoulder and pulled the few strokes to the shore.

  Fong was waiting at the wharf, gave me a nod of welcome.

  “Follow me, Mr Jackson. Your men in pairs behind you, formally.”

  Fong stood to my side, claiming at least the same status as me, and we walked a few hundred yards into the town behind the European cluster of warehouses.

  It was my first time into the actual Chinese parts of one of their cities. It was disappointing to an extent – similar in many ways to Bombay with small huts and tiny houses and huge numbers of people, all hollering and scurrying like ants and just as busy. They saw us and ignored us at one and the same time. The running men gave us no notice but never came close to colliding with us; the yelling women and children kept clear without ever seeming to see that we were there. If they never saw us, then presumably, we did not exist, which was more comfortable for their rulers.

  We came to an eight foot high wall, a building of sorts behind it. A large wooden gate, broad enough for four men shoulder to shoulder, swung open and a pair of guards inside nodded us through. I was looking all about me, excited, but took in the guards – big men, armed with long curved swords and giving off that air of danger that stigmatises good fighting men. I saw my men twitching, exuding the same air and strutting like fighting cocks. Fong called a few words and the guards relaxed obediently.

  “Maneater! Warn the lads off.”

  “No worry, sir. They won’t start anything.”

  I heard a mutter from behind me, ‘might bloody well finish it, though’. I ignored it.

  Fong heard nothing, or so it seemed. He led us through the empty few yards of bare earth at the front of the building, a large place, perhaps fifty yards on the frontage, painted in a faded red, on two floors and with th
e typical uptilted Chinese eaves. Its doors were open and we walked straight in to a reception hall that stretched the whole of the frontage, perhaps thirty feet deep. I estimated forty or fifty men present, most in scholars’ robes but a few of them guards. There was by way of a dais to the centre, a platform some eight feet square and reached by two steps. An elderly man dressed in plain but expensive silk robes of the same colour as the outside walls sat there, impassive, watching but not moving.

  Fong bowed deep and made a quick gesture to me to follow suit.

  I bowed equally low and heard a rustle as my people did the same at my back. The man in the chair – a throne almost – responded with a movement of his head, showing himself immeasurably our superior, but courteous.

  Fong turned to me, sideways on so as not to present his back to the man in the chair.

  “The Lord is aware that your ship was attacked by pirates on your previous voyage. That happens and is a matter of small concern, the more because you humiliated the pirates by killing many, including one of their leaders. What is important is that they have shown a desire to attack you again, although knowing that you are performing a task for the Lord. That is unacceptable. Their fort has burned and their treasure has been taken from them. Certain of their captains have also been punished. Their fleet has been broken up and given to the other fleets in the southern waters. Their leader – the king – has been brought here to make his amends.”

  I bowed again and expressed my pleasure.

  “I owed a debt of gratitude to my captain, who they killed. Please offer my thanks to your lord and assure him of my desire to offer him my service in return.”

  Fong said a few words and listened to a brief reply.

  “Your courtesy is commended, Mr Jackson. Watch now.”