02 Shanghai Dreams (The Earl’s Other Son #2)

by Andrew Wareham

  “What is his aim, do you think, Eskdale?”

  “Chaos. Create an uprising near Shanghai. Set the countryside alight and destroy the profits of the hongs here and weaken the Chinese businessmen who are creating an iron and steel industry up towards Hankow. If Germany seeks to make China into their Raj, their India, then they will not want Chinese tycoons making themselves wealthy and powerful and able to oppose them.”

  Captain Erskine was not entirely sure that an industrialised China would suit British interests either.

  “We trade, sir. The richer China becomes, the more they can buy from us.”

  “Good point. Of course, you know about trade and that sort of thing, Eskdale. Not what my family has ever been involved in, of course. What is it, one week to your wedding?”

  “Eight days until I become a part of the Blantyre family, sir. I shall not become active in the hong, of course, but it does bring me very close to trade. My poor father will not approve, I fear.”

  It was clear that Captain Erskine did not approve either. The English gentleman made his income from his lands – he did not dirty his hands with any form of business, except just possibly a directorship in a bank.

  “We do not have time to get permission from Hong Kong… If we act, it must be tonight, for the villain may be gone tomorrow for all we know. He should die… that is indisputable, we have a duty to hunt him down… but it is a risk, Eskdale, for both of us. I have a lot to lose, you know…”

  “A written order to me, sir. An instruction to investigate a rumour of a pirate attack upon the firm of Ebert and Sohn. In the absence of German forces to look after their own people, I am to take the action I find appropriate after proper investigation. Tug and lighter to be called upon, sir, and placed under my command.”

  “And I have clean hands, Eskdale. I am aware, as far as Admiral Seymour is concerned, that you are seeking to, as it were, rehabilitate yourself, to resurrect your naval career. It is therefore an act of some generosity on my part to give you the opportunity to assist the Germans in the absence of a vessel of their own to take action. If you fail – then who can be surprised? If you succeed, I have assisted you in your noble endeavour, and have shown very wise to trust you. Heads I win; tails I cannot lose. Why, Eskdale? You are giving me the glory and it is not as if we were the best of friends.”

  Magnus debated internally, and then told Erskine the truth.

  “I wish to bring Hildesheim’s troubling to an end, sir. I have no love for a man who will casually arrange the deaths of innocents for a temporary political gain. I might also wish to make a practical apology – being something more than the youthful playboy I once was.”

  Captain Erskine smiled graciously and half-bowed in acknowledgement; he wondered still what Magnus’ real motivation might be.

  “What of the rifles, Eskdale? They could be an embarrassment if they surfaced in our hands. We might have something to explain away.”

  “I know of friendly Chinese who could make good use of them, sir.”

  “You seem to know an awful lot about what’s going on under the surface, Eskdale. Have you been talking to Empingham?”

  “Only in passing, sir.”

  “Dirty business, spying!”

  Erskine wrote the order, in the words suggested.

  “Racoon will sail in the night, sir, requiring no overt sailing permission from your yardarm.”

  “Good luck!”

  Magnus glanced at his watch; still two hours before hands on leave would go ashore for the night. They would be disappointed this afternoon.

  “Mr Mason, we sail in the early hours. Mr Mornington to me now. No shore leave. Ship to be ready for action at dawn. Inform Mr Buchan that steam will be required. Mr Brownrigg to me.”

  Lieutenant Mornington came at the run, buttoning his coat, evidently roused from an afternoon nap.

  “We are to place ourselves one cable off the wharf of the Ebert and Sohn compound at first light, Mr Mornington. At what time should we sail? What speed, bearing in mind that we will be accompanied by the tug and lighter carrying the field gun?”

  Mornington begged for ten minutes while he consulted his chart.

  “Mr Brownrigg – the twelve pounder and landing party are to be put aboard the lighter. You will not accompany them. Racoon may expect to be in action against a steamship carrying pirates and will also bombard shore facilities that have been taken by the pirates, ensuring their total destruction. The landing party and gun will enfilade the compound from on shore, preventing escape overland.”

  “Aye aye, sir. Six inch guns to sink the ship. Close range action, sir? It will make their accuracy more certain. Three pounders will commence the shore bombardment. Maxims as required, targets of opportunity. Are we to send a landing party ashore in addition to that with the twelve pounder, sir?”

  “If the circumstances are right, yes. Final decision will be made when we can see what is happening.”

  “I shall name the party, sir.”

  “I shall lead it. You will remain aboard with full responsibility for the guns. You will choose targets and ensure that there are no escapees from the compound. You will not, for example, permit parties to leave with hostages. Better dead women and children than held to ransom in the hands of pirates.”

  “That is very hard, sir.”

  “It will be harder still to see what will happen to them as prisoners of Chinese pirates, Mr Brownrigg.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I much hope there are no families at the compound, Mr Brownrigg. If there are, they will have been captive for at least a day already…”

  “And much will have happened in a day, sir. I am sorry, sir. I spoke out of turn.”

  “No, you did not, Mr Brownrigg. Sometimes our duty compels us to obey the most unpleasant, unpalatable orders. Remember that they are my orders, not yours – and the responsibility is mine.”

  It was a comforting doctrine, but Brownrigg was honest enough to accept that he could always choose to disobey if he believed compliance to be morally incompatible with his status as a gentleman. He also accepted that to publicly refuse an order, however wrong it might be, was to end his naval career, and that he would be most unwilling to do. The rule was inflexible – ‘if an order is wrong, obey it and complain afterwards’.

  Lieutenant Mornington returned.

  “Two bells in the Middle Watch, sir, is my recommended sailing time. A speed of eight knots will take us to the compound for thirty-eight minutes after four o’clock, which is sunrise, sir. The river is flowing slowly just at the moment, and the tug should be able to manage nine knots with the lighter in tow, so will have a little in hand.”

  “Weather?”

  “Broken, light cloud, sir, seems most likely. No rain. Good visibility.”

  Magnus glanced at the chart Mornington presented.

  “I want ninety minutes in hand, Mr Mornington. That will enable us to get to get the lighter to the shore and the gun ready within two cables of the compound. What is the lay of the land?”

  The Yangtse River charts were unusual in giving detail of the shore for some miles on either side.

  “Flat plain at that particular point, sir. There is a creek that joins the Yangtse there, enabling lighters and barges to bring the inland harvest to the river. Hence the location of the compound, sir. Good for trade.”

  “What of the mooring?”

  “The River Pilot states there is a pontoon mooring, sir. Usable by ships of up to three thousand tons.”

  “Good. Sail at six bells of the First Watch. Eleven o’clock, landsman’s time. Send the postman to me.”

  Magnus scribbled a brief letter.

  “Ashore to the Blantyre House. If asked, we will be absent for no more than four days.”

  The messenger ran.

  The paddlewheel tug appeared just before dusk and brought the lighter alongside where the gun was waiting. Magnus watched as the slings were tightened and the gun lifted just sufficiently to cle
ar the bulwarks, It was lowered slowly down to the centreline of the lighter and secured with strops, exactly as practiced a few days before. A chain of men passed High Explosive and shrapnel shells from the magazine to a waterproofed part of the lighter’s hold. The landing party ran aboard, rifles held high.

  “Mr Grant-Hartley! Check ammunition pouches for the correct issue.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Mr Mason, have the men their rations for two days, in case of problems?”

  “Water for four days, sir. Beef and biscuit for two.”

  The men could get by on half rations of food but they must have full water in the sticky humidity of Shanghai in the hot months. They must not touch the polluted river water under any circumstances.

  “Tug to follow close astern, Mr Mason. Have a tow line ready against need. Mr Mornington, speak to the tug captain and show him on the chart where he is to put the gun and men ashore.”

  “There is a small village at half a mile distant, sir, round a bend in the river bank and just concealed from the compound. They should have a wharf of sorts, and a track is shown along the shore.”

  “Aim to make the landing at six bells in the Middle Watch – make sure the river man on the tug understands that to be at three a.m..”

  Magnus had noticed that the tug’s master was half-Chinese, the son of a Westerner put into a job that would make him a good living. It was wise, Magnus thought, to ensure that he knew what was what – never trust the half-caste like a true Englishman; one could never tell which blood would come out on top.

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Galley to brew cocoa at twice during the night, Mr Mason. To be taken round to the men at their stations together with a sandwich. Starboard battery to be loaded and ready as soon as we sail; they may wish to show lights while stowing the ready-use. Forward port six inch to be ready against possible need. Have we a crew to hand for the gun?”

  “No, sir. Not with the landing party and gun crew on the lighter. It will be necessary to make up a crew from the men we have trained as back-ups in case of casualties.”

  “Racoon is undermanned for this sort of service, Mr Mason, but we must live with it. I wish to address the officers before we sail.”

  “May I invite you to join us in the wardroom, sir?”

  Courtesy demanded that the captain should request permission of the President of the Wardroom, his second-in-command, before ever entering the officers’ living quarters. Theoretically, that permission could be refused…

  “Gentlemen, we have information that river pirates have taken the compound of Ebert and Sohn, the German grain and cotton exporters. They have a steamship of some size, presumably also pirated and to be used to take away the stocks held in the compound. There is some reason to suppose that the pirates are under the leadership of white renegades. We have heard of this before, of course.”

  White pirates were a long-standing fiction of the River and of the whole China Coast. There had certainly been slavers, and pirates were only one further step along the road to perdition, so it had always seemed eminently likely, even though remarkably few had ever been discovered.

  The assembled officers gravely agreed that such vile traitors to the whole White Race were known to exist.

  “There will be no mercy extended to their sort.”

  There was a unanimous nod of their heads – renegades shamed them all in front of the Chinese and should be dealt with expeditiously. No need for trial for that sort.

  “There is a rumour of gunrunning, which may be another reason why the compound has been attacked. Those of you who will join me in the landing party from the ship are to keep a weather eye open for a store of modern rifles or ammunition. If they do exist, they must be recovered before they can get into the hands of Chinese revolutionaries.”

  That was simple self-interest, they thought. They did not want to find themselves under sustained, accurate fire from magazine rifles while cruising along the shores of the River.

  “Rapid, disciplined fire from the great guns first of all, gentlemen, to be followed by a landing and the bayonet and cutlass. We are to do a thorough job. We want no survivors to return to pirating the industrious traders on the River who we are here to protect.”

  They opened the bar and drank to their success, on the Captain’s account, much to their delight. Magnus winced as he mentally totted up the cost of the malt whisky and pink gins disappearing down their throats.

  “We shall splice the mainbrace after the successful action, of course, gentlemen. For now, every department to be on top line.”

  “Including the mouldies, sir?”

  Magnus managed a smile at Mason’s quip.

  “If their ship seems likely to escape our guns, yes, Mr Mason – but I really do not expect to fire our torpedoes tonight… although... all things are possible, now that you come to mention it. Let us assume for the while that exact fire at the waterline by the six inchers while the Maxims empty her decks will do the job and require nothing more, I trust. I will consider your request, Mr Mason.”

  Magnus returned to his own cabin before Mason could make it clear that he had been joking.

  They sailed precisely to the minute, the postman making his traditional leap aboard as the last wire was released. He handed Magnus a note in a scented envelope.

  ‘My love, from the little you say, you are to place yourself in peril in the line of duty, yet again. You must go as Britannia calls you – but come home to me unscathed, please. I do not say ‘with your shield or on it’, as the old Spartans demanded, for I know that, as the poet says, ‘you could not love me if you did not love honour more’. Eight days until we are made one – I am counting the hours, my love.’

  A fraction overblown, Magnus thought, but as a true Victorian, the sentiment moved him. He would return, he promised himself. He had heard the quotation before, frequently, it was a military favourite; he had a vague recollection of the poet’s name… Lovelace, that was it – one of those damned fools who had fought for the Stuarts against Cromwell and had been betrayed by Charles II at the Restoration, never seeing their lost estates again, despite his many promises of restitution. Magnus believed that his own family’s earldom dated from the Restoration, a several times great grandfather having changed his coat at just the right time to be rewarded; they did not generally discuss the source of their nobility. He put the note away, carefully, to be preserved, before turning back to the business of the night.

  “Mr Mason, the torpedoes have a range of one thousand yards, do they not?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mason almost cringed; he did not approve of his captain’s obsession with the unreliable infernal machines and he was convinced that he would be blamed by the other officers for mentioning the damned things, for having been so foolish as to make a joke.

  “A speed of something less than twenty knots, I believe.”

  “Yes, sir. Fired from the fixed bow tube, sir, one would add the initial speed of the ship to that, sir.”

  “So we would… If we were to fire a torpedo at a range of say four cables while we closed at speed, intending to open fire with the guns at one cable…”

  Mason took over the calculations.

  “Say eighteen knots for the torpedo, sir, which is a rate of three cables a minute, plus whatever initial velocity was added - and I am insufficient of a mathematician to postulate what that might be, sir – says perhaps seventy seconds travel for the torpedo. Aiming off for a five knot cross current, of course – that is simple enough, I think. Racoon to be at full speed, against the current in part, say fourteen knots… Calculating on my fingers, sir, I estimate that the torpedo would hit just about as we opened fire, quite probably, that is. Perhaps.”

  “It would be a fine way to open the ball, you know, Mr Mason. You take personal charge of the torpedo tube, Mr Mason. Mr Mornington will give you the exact time to fire – as Navigator that falls in his department, I believe. Discuss the business with him.”<
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  Mason thanked his captain for giving him the opportunity to make a torpedo attack – a chance that had fallen, he knew, to very few naval officers.

  “They were fired in the fight with Huascar, I believe, sir. On the South American station, that was.”

  “So they were. They missed. We might wish to do better. That was in ’77, was it not? I am sure our skills, and the torpedoes themselves, have improved since then.”

  “So they have, sir.”

  Sailing at night on the Yangtse was a nerve-wracking experience.

  Racoon and the tugboat showed proper running lights, almost uniquely among the many vessels on the water. None of the lorchas, junks and sampans spent money on lanterns, or could afford oil to light them if they happened to have been fitted. The river steamers often had lights but tended to be arbitrary in their placement and colour, red and green located according to their master’s artistic sense rather than pandering to boring considerations of port and starboard. The concept of ‘right of way’ probably existed among Chinese navigators, but they accorded it little importance, thinking it simpler to shout insults at any vessel close to them. As well, a proportion of the hundred or so hulls they came near in the night were probably about unlawful business and did not want to be seen and seemed not to care if they might be run down.

  Lieutenant Mornington placed two seamen in the bows with electric lanterns and a hand-wound siren to warn off small craft and held Racoon at his chosen cruising speed. He much hoped they would run nothing down, for fear of their broken hulls damaging the propellers.

  There was a good moon and little cloud and Mornington was able to identify marks on the riverbanks and hills inland to give a precise position and increase and reduce speed as necessary. The tug remained on station at half a cable, too close at sea but acceptable in the calmer waters of the Yangtse. Minutes before three o’clock he gave a light signal to the tug to take up its mooring inshore.

  “Tug to landing, sir. Anchor, sir?”

  Magnus gave the order and Racoon came to a pair of anchors to hold her head into the current.