Chinese Whispers

by Andrew Wareham

  “One of the seniors, Hartley or Warren, Mr Knowles.”

  “I’ll organise that, sir.”

  Magnus was left knowing that he should have specified that he wanted Warren at his heels. He did not wish to take the risk of losing Hartley, would much prefer that he should be with his division in the middle of the ruck. He could not say so now without drawing attention to the fact that he wanted him protected and that would do neither of them good.

  “They both seem good young officers in the making, Mr Knowles.”

  “Perfectly adequate young gentlemen, sir. Warren slightly the better, I would say, for wanting to make up for what he thinks was a failure on his destroyer. You know what boys are, sir – he thinks that he was weak for not being able to cope with the conditions on a small ship at seventeen years of age.”

  “Understandable, Mr Knowles. Keep an eye out for him – don’t let him do anything stupid in action, trying to be too bold to show good.”

  “Any of the mids are likely to do that, sir. Boys never know the difference between common sense caution and cowardice. They think that if they are not exposing themselves to fire, they are showing yellow.”

  “It can be difficult to draw the line sometimes, Mr Knowles. I suspect we may all find out when the Boxers come out of their holes later in the year.”

  “That might be a chance for some fun, sir. A bit of sport, putting them down again.”

  Magnus had no answer for that all too common attitude.

  “Make twelve knots until Mr Coulthorne gives the turn onto course for the patrol line, Mr Knowles. At least we seem to have fair weather for the while. We would be wasting our time trying to find our gunrunner in a storm.”

  For a week they seemed to be nothing other than wasting their time. The sea was empty of steamers of any size or description. They spotted two fishing fleets of ten and twenty ton sampans, small wooden boats that seemed home-made from the cheapest of materials, and wondered at the courage or desperation that took men fifty miles out to sea in such craft. A dozen of junks and lorchas passed them on their legitimate commercial business, including one of the increasingly rare old ocean-going junks of a thousand tons or more, five-masted and tall out of the water.

  “I wonder where she has been and what she is carrying, Mr Knowles.”

  “Opium, no doubt, sir, transhipped from an Australian merchantman at one of the islands off New Guinea. Gold dust as well, and pearls and probably mother of pearl and beche de mer by the ton. They make a six months voyage, sometimes far longer, through the whole of the South Pacific. Used to go to Madagascar, I am told, but not since the French poked their noses in there.”

  “The wonders of the Orient, Mr Knowles. Should we stop her and search her for opium?”

  Knowles shrugged – a few smuggled heads of opium one way or the other would make no difference when tons were imported legally through Shanghai.

  “Agreed, Mr Knowles. We have, I hope, other fish to fry.”

  They finally spotted a steamship, soon after dawn on a morning of poor visibility with rain showers in the vicinity. She was no more than five miles away, emerging from a rain cloud and on a course for Port Arthur, distant some thirty miles, well clear.

  Obelisk turned her head direct for the stranger as Magnus was called to the bridge.

  “Steamer, sir, of about a thousand tons. Three island. Black hull, pale blue upper-works, not so easy to pick out. Single funnel, all black.”

  “If it’s our man, he’s been busy with his paintbrush, Mr Knowles. With a large crew, that is not impossible. Flag signal, ‘What ship?’.”

  Obelisk had an electric signalling lamp, but few merchant seamen could read Morse code. Flag signals were more normal and there was a set of International hoists that all ships were expected to be familiar with. Very few merchantmen ever admitted to understanding anything a naval vessel had to say to them, having little sympathy for pampered brats who did not work for their living.

  “No response, sir.”

  “Yeoman, make the signal by light.”

  The Yeoman of the Signals picked up the Aldis lamp and triggered the signal carefully and painstakingly. Between naval ships it was a matter of pride to flash a signal as quickly as possible, but merchantmen had to be treated as if they were the village idiot – illiterate and slow.

  His mate was watching the merchantman through binoculars.

  “One man on the bridge, sir. Waving his hat at us. A bowler, sir.”

  “What?”

  “The hat, sir.”

  “Oh!”

  Magnus bent to the bridge voice-pipe, called his steering orders.

  “Bring us round, cox’n, on her port side, no more than fifty yards off her, within hailing distance. Be ready to come alongside her.”

  He waited for the coxswain, the senior hand in the ship who took over the wheel in action, to repeat his orders then straightened up from the pipe. He would give no more orders, leaving it to the coxswain to interpret his commands sensibly, and knowing that he certainly would.

  “Hands to action stations, boarding parties armed and ready in places of concealment. Mr Knowles stand in front of me and look like the captain. I do not wish to alert them by being seen to leave the bridge. Can you spot any place of concealment for machine guns, Mr Knowles?”

  “No, sir. But if I could, they would not be very well concealed, sir.”

  “Good point, Mr Knowles.”

  Obelisk rolled heavily as the coxswain swung her across the trough of the low seas, pulling her into a tight curve to come alongside the merchantman.

  “Looks like an ordinary tramp steamer, sir. If he is a smuggler or slaver, then he needs to, sir.”

  “Going down, Mr Knowles. Hail her when in distance.”

  Magnus ran below and to the side, joined by Midshipman Hartley as his runner and errand boy, his doggie in naval terminology.

  Mr Knowles voice came through the megaphone, shouting.

  Magnus strained to pick up a reply.

  “No comprenny!”

  Obelisk heeled over as she crashed alongside the ignorant foreigner. Magnus hurdled the rail and fell a good six feet to her deck, Hartley at his heel, and ran to the bridge. The Marines were immediately behind him. There was no shooting.

  “What the bloody ‘ell are you bastards doin’ boarding my bloody ship?”

  The master was not best pleased with the Navy’s incursion. He had his dog by his side, a small terrier; it bit Magnus’ calf.

  “Bloody hell! Get that bloody dog off me, man!”

  “Serves you bloody right. Got no bloody right boarding me on the high bloody seas. Cardiff Maid, out of Sydney, flour and general stores for Port Arthur, contracted to Burns Philp merchants.”

  “I shall need to rummage your holds, sir.”

  “You’re bloody welcome. Do it yourself. Don’t expect my bloody men to give you a hand.”

  Four hours later Magnus apologised and left by boat, Obelisk having hauled off ‘before it scraped any more of the bloody paintwork’. The master assured him that his owners would be demanding costs of repainting from the Admiralty.

  Magnus limped back to the bridge.

  “Resume patrol line, Mr Knowles. Call the Surgeon up to look at my leg.”

  Mr Knowles acknowledged his orders, carefully hiding his grin.

  “That mutt’s got dirty teeth, Captain. I wonder what they feed it on.”

  “Naval officers. Clean it up, man.”

  Magnus sat stoically in his sea-cabin, a tiny hutch below the bridge, while the doctor scrubbed out the punctures with carbolic.

  “Got to do it thorough, sir. Get infected for sure if I don’t.”

  “Quite right. Carter, get me a gin.”

  Carter ran, trying, like Knowles, to hide his enjoyment of the situation. He wondered how his master was going to record his wound – ‘savaged by a terrier in action’ would be an unusual log entry.

  Three hours later the lookouts called another ship.
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  “Three island freighter, sir. About one thousand tons, red band to smokestack, black hull and buff superstructure.”

  “Hands to stations, boarding parties ready…”

  Again, there was no response to flag or light signals and Obelisk placed herself fifty yards off the unknown’s side.

  Magnus scanned the ship as they closed, saw small deckhouses by the hatch covers fore and aft. They might be protection for donkey engines to operate the derricks or could be cover for guns.

  “Maxims, cover the bridge and the aft accommodation. Three pounders, watch the deckhouses and open fire at first sign of guns.”

  It was not a satisfactory order – too vague and leaving a lot to the gunners’ initiative. It was the best he could do. He ran down to the side, swearing as his leg twinged.

  Knowles shouted and a man dressed in trousers and a singlet and wearing a scruffy peaked cap leaned over his open bridge rail.

  “George Washington, out of San Francisco for Port Arthur. Carrying flour and canned beef for stores.”

  He sounded American, to Magnus’ understanding of the accent.

  “Alongside, Mr Knowles!”

  The timber planking of the deckhouse crashed down as he jumped the rails and Maxim Guns started to stutter. Obelisk’s own machine guns and the three pounders fired as one, at point blank range, almost deafening Magnus. He dropped to one knee and surveyed the scene. There were rifle shots from the stern quarters and some of the Marines returned fire before forcing their way inside. One of parties of ratings had control of the bridge, he saw. He presumed that the party for the engine room had done its job.

  “Very good. Mr Hartley, inform Mr Knowles that we have control of the ship and that he should organise working parties to open the hatches.”

  There was no response and he turned to see where the boy was, saw Carter on his knees beside a body.

  “Four rounds in his chest, sir. From the Maxim. Can’t have missed you by an inch sir.”

  It was pointless to ask – four rounds in the chest killed any man, let alone a not fully-grown boy.

  “Shit!”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll get a stretcher to take him away, sir. Burial at sea at dawn, sir?”

  “No choice, Carter. Him and the rest. There will be other casualties from our people, I must imagine. Quite a few of the Americans as well.”

  “Ain’t my idea of Yanks, sir. Look more like Malay to me.”

  “Seamen, Carter – coming from everywhere.”

  An engine room hand appeared on deck, came trotting across to Magnus.

  “Beg pardon, sir. Sent up to say we taken over the engines, sir. Bit of shooting, sir, but ended up tidy. Officer says, sir, that the engines look new, sir – well kept, sir.”

  The ship seemed shabby where she could be seen.

  “Well observed. Mulligan, isn’t it? Are you enjoying life in the engine room, Mulligan?”

  “Yes, sir. Much better, sir. Won’t let you down, sir.”

  “I never thought you would. Off you go now.”

  Magnus walked slowly up to the bridge, working out the wording of the reports he must write.

  The Admiral was not going to like hearing of Hartley’s death… probably – he might be glad to have a Royal favourite out of the way. Dead in battle, valorously, which was one of the risks of putting a boy in the Navy. Very tidy. Perhaps he need not worry too much.

  The scruffily dressed captain was sprawled on the plates of the bridge, surrounded by blood. A parrot was squawking on a perch behind him. Midshipman Warren was stood by the wheel, revolver in hand and looking close to tears.

  “I told him to put his hands up, sir, and he grabbed at that shotgun there.” He pointed to a double-barrelled twelve-bore lying beside the dead captain. “I emptied the pistol into him, sir.”

  Magnus looked more closely, saw bullet holes in the singlet, four or five of them in the belly and chest, fired from close range.

  “Well done. A thorough job of it, Mr Warren. No room for half measures in that sort of situation. I shall mention you in my report, young man.”

  The boy was perhaps sixteen or seventeen, Magnus thought, young for such rough business.

  “You did everything I would expect from one of my officers, Mr Warren. He could have killed you and others under your command. Run back to Obelisk now, to Mr Knowles. Working parties to open the hatches. Hartley is dead and you will run for me in his place.”

  The best thing to do for Warren was to keep him busy – he had done well in a hard situation and needed not to think too much for the while. He was young for a killing at such close quarters.

  Magnus leaned over the bridge rails, looking towards the stern.

  “Mr Robbins, to me!”

  There was a crashing of hob-nailed boots on the wooden deck. Marines dressed as soldiers, despite being at sea.

  “What’s the bill, Mr Robbins?”

  “Lost four of mine, sir, three to rifle shots and one to a knife. Five wounded as well, two needing shore hospital, sir.”

  That was a nuisance, to put it mildly. Magnus could not take Obelisk directly to the Philippines. He must discover an alternative.

  “Crew of this ship?”

  “Seven prisoners, sir, unwounded. Six more with bullet wounds and one with a bayonet through the belly. Last one won’t live, sir. Thomas twisted it as he pulled out, sir. Fellow had just shot his best pal, sir.”

  “Bad luck. No need to mention that in your written report. A pirate mortally wounded in action. End of story. Better part of twenty dead, from the sound of it.”

  “Counted eighteen stiffs so far, sir.”

  “Could be some unaccounted for, Mr Robbins. Check the ship.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Anything else to report, Mr Robbins? Who had the party of bluejackets following you?”

  “Mr Parnell, sir. He had them well up on my heels, sir.”

  Magnus had not wished to ask directly about Parnell and risk creating gossip; it sounded as if he had done his job properly and that the fears for his courage had been unfounded. That was a relief – he had not wanted either a messy court martial or to have the man posted out with a bad report smearing his name.

  The remaining officers reported in, recording a total of five dead from Obelisk and nine who would benefit from the services of a hospital rather than be treated aboard ship.

  Magnus returned to Obelisk.

  “Mr Knowles, you will take a prize crew aboard the gunrunner and will rummage the holds, making a record of all you discover. No need to open every crate – just get the feeling for what she is carrying. Keep the prisoners under confinement aboard her. If needs be, in irons.”

  Ships on the China Station were equipped to handle captive pirates; all carried handcuffs and leg shackles.

  “Make no more than steerage way on a course for Manila Bay, Mr Knowles. I shall take Obelisk at high speed to Barfleur and pass our wounded across to her better equipped sick berth. I shall return to escort you to the Philippines.”

  Knowles ran to his quarters to grab a bag with a minimum of clothing and necessaries; taking a prize ship in was always useful on a lieutenant’s record of service and at the very least, showed that his captain thought him capable of command.

  “Mr Coulthorne. Current position, precisely. Course for Manila Bay for Mr Knowles. Course to Wei-Hai-Wei for Obelisk and then interception of Mr Knowles assuming he makes three to four knots. Mr Knuyper, take the position and then accompany Mr Knowles.”

  Thirty minutes and the boarding parties had been recalled, apart from a prize crew, and Obelisk was working up to a safe fifteen knots on course to return to Barfleur.

  Obelisk entered Wai-Hai-Wei at speed and had a boat in the water and pulling for Barfleur within seconds, alerting the battleship that something had happened.

  “Caught our gunrunner, sir. She had a pair of machine guns concealed and the crew was armed. Lost one mid and five ratings and Marines and I have nine wounded, si
r. All of my wounded would benefit from the services of your doctor, sir. I would prefer, sir, if possible, to transfer the wounded to Barfleur while Obelisk returns to carry out the remainder of her orders, sir.”

  “What’s the alternative, Eskdale?”

  Captain Barrington had a feeling he was being forced to act for the convenience of a junior man. He did not like it.

  “You could send your doctor aboard Obelisk, sir. For about three weeks, at an estimate, sir. We are less well equipped than Barfleur, sir.”

  Captain Barrington saw no alternative than to accede to Obelisk’s request – he could not refuse medical attention to naval ratings.

  “Send your wounded across, Eskdale. No choice in that. You’re limping yourself, I see.”

  “Dog bite, sir!”

  “Dog bite. Unusual at sea, Eskdale?”

  Magnus mustered the first of what he knew would be many rueful smiles. The story was far too good not to be repeated. The whole fleet would have heard inside the year, in grossly exaggerated detail, of the captain who was bitten by a dog in action at sea.

  “We boarded and checked a British tramp, sir. Her captain kept a terrier.”

  “Vicious little brutes, terriers, sometimes, Eskdale.”

  “So I noticed, sir.”

  “Was I you, Eskdale, I might keep a mastiff with me, for protection, you know.”

  The necessary laugh was not easy, particularly with the Commander sniggering in the background.

  The doctor accompanied Magnus to Obelisk and supervised the transfer of the wounded, necessarily carefully and slowly.

  “No good looking at your watch, Captain! It will take as long as it takes, and I will not hurry the job!”

  “Sorry, Doctor. I need to tidy up these damned gunrunners. We nearly had thousands of rifles ashore in the hands of the Boxers.”

  “Oh! Real, are they, sir? I thought they were just figments of the gin-heated imagination. You know what these missionaries are like, sir!”

  “Apparently, from our information, they will be marching in June, Doctor, mostly armed with spears and old muskets and single-shot rifles. We don’t want magazine rifles and Maxims in their hands.”