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

by Andrew Wareham

  “Dowse all lights, including running lights. Silent order. Engine room to reduce all noise to the absolute minimum.”

  “No running lights, sir?”

  “Extinguish them.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Lieutenant Mornington was not a happy navigator, expecting collisions at any minute.

  “Galley to feed all hands at their stations.”

  Racoon was eating shore food, one of the benefits of being tied up in Shanghai, and the baker had delivered extra loaves before they had sailed. The galley had been forewarned and was ready; bully beef sandwiches were not quite haute cuisine but were welcome with cocoa in the middle of the night.

  “Damned cold on the water at this time of night, Mr Mason.”

  “Dug out my duffel coat for the night, sir. Supposed to be hot, Shanghai and its environs, but it’s damned near freezing just now.”

  “It will keep the pirates tucked away in their sweaty beds, no doubt, Mr Mason. Not the temperature to encourage sentries to be vigilant.”

  “Very true, sir. I shall do the rounds of the ship, I think, sir. Just to be quite certain that they are all on their toes. I have ordered the bell muffled, sir.”

  Magnus thanked him, aware that he should have thought of that himself.

  A light flashed from the shore.

  “Tugboat, sir. Tied up and landing party ashore. Village secured, sir.”

  There was a derrick and steam winch on the tug; they should be putting the gun onto the wharf, Magnus thought. No message should mean no difficulty.

  An hour of slow waiting, the sole interest a small sampan bouncing its way along the hull and shouting loud imprecations.

  “There are times when I wish I spoke Chinese, Mr Mason. I wonder just what he was saying about us?”

  “I can imagine, sir.”

  “Me too.”

  The light flashed again.

  “Gun emplaced and ready, sir. Compound in sight.”

  “Very good, Mr Mason. How many minutes till first light?”

  “Twenty-three, sir.”

  “Engine room, revolutions for five knots. Up anchor, Mr Mason. Keep her hove-to. Mr Brownrigg, your guns to track their targets. Mr Mornington, give the order to make way at the exact second, if you would be so good.”

  Magnus knew his orders were contradictory – the current was probably less than five knots and it would be almost impossible to remain hove-to, motionless in relation to the riverbank, but it would do no harm to make the attempt. They would certainly not be swept backwards, and that was the important thing.

  Mornington kept them waiting for fifteen minutes and then gave the call for increased revolutions, bringing Racoon to a crawl, then slowly accelerating towards full speed.

  “Well thought, sir. A sudden increase in revolutions would bring extra smoke, and possibly hot cinders showing at the funnel.”

  “Quite, Mr Harborough. Can you see as far as the bows?”

  “Faintly, sir. I can see an officer, must be Mr Mason, with a party at the tube, sir.”

  Magnus would have been rather angry to have discovered differently. He glanced at Mornington, saw that he had a whistle to his lips, stopwatch in the other hand.

  The whistle shrilled and the cough of compressed air sounded as the torpedo was thrust from its tube. Half a minute and a boy sailor arrived at the trot.

  “Mr Mason’s respects, sir. Torpedo running, sir.”

  The engine noise increased and Racoon built speed, not in any great surge but steadily. Magnus reflected that was the nature of the ship – slow and sure, reliable but never at the front of the line.

  “Ready, Mr Brownrigg.”

  Brownrigg had a megaphone to hand, evidently not trusting his voice to carry to the forward guns.

  “Open the target, Mr Mornington.”

  The helm went over and Racoon shifted to port, opening the starboard battery to the ship and shore, both becoming increasingly visible in the pre-dawn twilight.

  “I can see the torpedo track, sir. It’s on target!”

  Lieutenant Harborough sounded surprised – he had obviously expected little of the weapon. Magnus hoped it was fused correctly – it would be an anti-climax if it hit but failed to explode.

  A plume of white water rose nearly a hundred feet into the air, towards the stern of the steamer. The roar of the explosion followed, was almost drowned by the bellow of the guns. They were at a little more than a cable and the six inch shells all hit in the hull, piercing the thin sides of the merchant ship and exploding internally. Paymaster Whitlocke was at Magnus’ shoulder, acting as his secretary in action.

  “Three castle freighter. About two thousand tons. Sinking by the stern. Turning turtle.”

  Whitlocke noted Magnus’ words for the report that must be made.

  The six inchers fired again, four of them bearing on the ship and penetrating the deck that was turning towards the vertical. Five of the three pounders were firing at the compound. One of the Maxims on the conning tower commenced fire as men appeared on shore, running out of the buildings in the first alarm.

  A lookout shouted.

  “Carrying rifles, sir. On shore.”

  “Armed pirates, Mr Whitlocke.”

  The merchantman was almost under water, bows raised in the air, stern already gone.

  “Shift target, Mr Brownrigg.”

  The compound was fenced and the six inchers had been instructed to fire at the furthest inland buildings. They fired their last round of HE into the ship and then loaded shrapnel, as had been ordered.

  “Twelve pounder in action, sir.”

  There was a gate leading to the roadway along the bank; Magnus saw twelve pound shells exploding and running men scattering back inside the compound.

  “Landing party muster!”

  The boats were towing astern. Magnus watched the thirty riflemen swarm down into his launch and a longboat, followed after, last man in.

  “To the pontoon, cox’n.”

  He stood as the boat came close to the floating wharf, jumped the four feet that made him first onshore. It was best, he thought, that he should be seen to take the lead – the men liked to see a bold officer.

  “Survivors from the ship here, sir. Seven of ‘em. In a huddle at the end of the pontoon.”

  “Are they armed?”

  “Yes, sir – knives and revolvers, sir.”

  “Finish them. Pirates, not worth the risk of trying to take them alive.”

  Rifle shots rang out and the men toppled into the water. Magnus had spotted that one at least was a white ship’s officer and preferred him not to be available for questioning.

  The landing party fanned out inshore, bayonets fixed, cutlasses in the hands of those who did not have rifles. Magnus waved his sword, prominent to the front. They found a cluster of a dozen huts where the labourers employed in the compound had lived with their wives and children. Most of the huts were on fire from the shelling; the surviving Chinese families were herded together in the cover of the remaining buildings, placed under a sentry, told they had been rescued.

  The shelling stopped as the landing parties made their way through the compound. The gunners had been ordered to destroy any escapees but there was no sign of men trying to get out.

  A big warehouse full of grain was burning, the flames already impossible to put out. Two smaller warehouses showed damage but were not afire. Every other European style building, offices and housing equally, was flattened, flames licking at the timbers. It had been cold enough for most of the housing to have had stoves alight, their charcoal scattered.

  “Survivors here, sir!”

  Magnus ran across at the call, wondering how he could deal with them. The crew would not accept killing civilians they believed they had rescued. He heaved a sigh of relief as he reached the half a dozen men; no white women or children, and all of the males Chinese or half-caste.

  “What happened? Who are you?”

  “I am shroff to Ebert and
Sohn, sir. The ship was not one of ours, sir, and ordered that it must be unloaded and the cargo placed in our warehouse. The master, sir, made the comprador and the honourable Herr Harzer to go aboard the steamer. I did as I was ordered, sir.”

  Comprador and shroff were the two senior-ranking Chinese employees of any hong. Herr Harzer would have been the sole German and in nominal charge of the compound while the two senior did the actual work.

  “What was the cargo?”

  Magnus was sure that the shroff would have been able to open one of the boxes – it was his job to know what was happening.

  “Rifles, sir. Military, sir. Several thousands, sir. Ammunition, too.”

  “For the Imperial forces?”

  “No, sir. If the authorities come to know, they will be very disturbed, sir.”

  That translated as the shroff expecting to lose his head if the Qing officials heard anything of the matter.

  “Mr Mason!”

  Mason appeared at the run.

  “Racoon to the pontoon. Take the twelve pounder aboard and cast off. Tug and lighter to follow to the pontoon and load the cargo of rifles and ammunition that the shroff here will identify.”

  Mason ran. Magnus turned back to the shroff.

  “Your employment is lost, I must imagine. Will Ebert and Sohn have another place for you?”

  “No, sir. They will not be pleased that I have permitted such a disaster.”

  “Go to the premises of the Blantyre hong in Shanghai. You will find proper work there. Take your family with you, if they are still live.”

  That should keep the shroff’s mouth shut, Magnus thought. He glanced at the other men, all equally unemployed now.

  “Shroff! Take these with you, and the families. All will be provided for.”

  They searched the buildings and discovered three dead Europeans, all still in nightclothes, killed in their first waking. Magnus recognised Baron Hildesheim’s face, very fortunately almost unmarked by the three pound shell burst that had mangled his body. He made a quick search of his bed space and the small dressing table, shovelled a small attaché case and all the papers he could find into a pillowcase ripped off the bed. He threw in the wallets and all other personal valuables that might serve to identify the bodies.

  “Mr Mason, we must tidy up, I believe. A working party to heave the bodies into the burning grain warehouse.”

  Magnus strolled back to his boat, whistling quietly. A very tidy little affair, he thought. He leaned on the conning tower rail as Racoon was moored to the pontoon and the twelve pounder was recovered.

  “Very good, Mr Brownrigg.”

  “Thank you, sir. The river seems empty, sir. It was very busy last night.”

  “The first sound of gunfire will have been enough to send every sensible man elsewhere, Mr Brownrigg. No profit to poking one’s nose into a battle, you know.”

  “See nothing is the wisest policy, it would seem, sir.”

  “Very much so, Mr Brownrigg. We have done a good job, I think. How deep is the water at the pontoon here?”

  “At a guess, sir, more than ten fathoms in the channel. The steamer has sunk out of sight. There is still timber coming to the surface, and the occasional body, sir. It will be safer to back off, sir, to leave the way we came rather than risk fouling the wreck.”

  “Sensible indeed. The guns did very well, Mr Brownrigg, and my report will mention the fact.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Brownrigg’s career, particularly his next promotion, would benefit from a mention in the report of an action.

  The last of the twelve pound shells came off shore and Magnus ordered Racoon to make a stern board and to anchor a cable distant from the pontoon. The tug placed the lighter convenient for loading and the working parties began running wooden boxes containing ten each of rifles up from the small warehouses. They were busy for five hours before Mason was rowed out to Racoon.

  “All aboard, sir. Two hundred boxes of rifles and one thousand of ammunition, sir.”

  “Two thousand Mausers and a million rounds, Mr Mason.”

  “Five hundred rounds to the rifle, sir. Sufficient for training and then to fight a single campaign.”

  “Keeping the Chinese on a tight rein, it would seem. No more ammunition if they misbehave.”

  Mason shook his head.

  “That might be what they thought, sir, but the reality is that the Chinese would keep the cartridge cases and reload them. There are plenty of workshops which could cast lead bullets and crimp them to refilled cartridges. The sole need would be percussion caps – they are centre-fire, I believe.”

  “Caps can be bought, Mr Mason, from any one of a hundred manufacturers in Europe.”

  “Belgium especially, sir, has a small-arms industry that will sell anything to any man with gold.”

  “That I did not know, but it does not surprise me – smaller countries are less concerned with the maintenance of empire.”

  That seemed very likely to Mason.

  “Recall the men, Mr Mason. Instruct them to make a last sweep through the remaining buildings and then to come aboard the tug and be returned to Racoon. Recover the boats.”

  There might be small valuables still to be picked up, Magnus thought, and the men would appreciate the opportunity to loot whatever was to hand.

  They sailed early in the afternoon, intentionally keeping to six knots, a speed that should bring them to the Bund at Shanghai soon after dark.

  “Was we to increase to ten knots, sir, which the tug could easily manage with this current, then we could moor in daylight.”

  “Yes, Mr Mornington. That is why we are making six knots. The rifles, Mr Mornington, were not discovered under a toadstool, a gift of the fairies. I much prefer that the cargo on the lighter shall not be disclosed to every Tom, Dick and Harry – or indeed to Karl, Fritz and Wilhelm! I do not know exactly what was going on at Ebert and Sohn’s compound, or what seems to have brought pirates down upon them, but I do wish to keep some aspects of the affair quiet until I have orders from the Senior Naval Officer Shanghai.”

  Lieutenant Mornington had not considered aspects of higher political strategy, he said. His eyes had been opened; he was most grateful to his captain for enlightening him.

  It was well after dark and Captain Erskine had been waiting in his office, it seemed. He arrived at the pontoon at a sedate trot, possibly the nearest he could come to a run considering the weight he was carrying. He started to shout as he climbed down to the floating mooring.

  “All well, Lord Eskdale?”

  “Exactly as you surmised, sir. Will you come to my cabin to discuss the success of the operation, sir?”

  Captain Erskine strode aboard, a careful smile affixed to his face, nodding to each side, the great man greeting his successful minions.

  “I have the full written report here, sir. Would you wish me to give a verbal summary?”

  Erskine listened eagerly, interjecting the odd comment to show that he was taking everything in.

  “Torpedoed her! Successfully… Hildesheim dead. Well done… Two thousand military Mausers… magazine rifles… a million rounds, by God!”

  Magnus ended with a question and its best answer.

  “As you said, sir, the rifles will be an embarrassment. What do we do with them? I could send the tug down the coast to Admiral Seymour’s friend, Ping Wu, at Hanshan. Sailing tonight, clearing the estuary before dawn, tied up in port before the word gets out of an action upriver.”

  “Good idea. Will this Chink know what to do with ‘em?”

  “Very definitely, sir. I shall send one of my officers down on the lighter, sir, to give him a verbal message. Young Brownrigg will be best – he likes Hanshan.”

  Magnus carefully did not say why that might be.

  “Make it so, Eskdale. I’ll take the written report now and have a word with Empingham as well. You make your number at my office for about nine o’clock and we shall tidy everything up then and send you off
to Blantyre House before noon!”

  Captain Erskine evidently thought that to be the best of jokes, went ashore giggling merrily.

  “Mr Brownrigg!”

  The Gunnery Officer came down at the run, saluting his very best. Mason had explained to him just how much good he had done to his promotion prospects by his success in the action and he was pleased indeed with his captain.

  “You are to board the tug, Mr Brownrigg and inform the captain that he is to make best speed to Hanshan. Once there, you will speak with Mr Ping, and probably be given audience with Ping Wu himself. The rifles and ammunition are to be handed over to Ping Wu, with my best compliments. Remain at Hanshan for at least two days before returning to Shanghai.”

  Mr Brownrigg thought that would be no hardship.

  Captain Erskine had probably spent much of the night composing his own despatch, the covering letter that would accompany Magnus’ report of the action. Admiral Seymour would wish to know how it came about that Racoon had been sent upriver and what the greater aims of the engagement had been. It was only reasonable that Captain Erskine, who had set his career at such great hazard, should demonstrate that he had acted with daring and remarkable foresight, that he had made a Nelsonian decision, in fact. It was obviously the case that Lord Eskdale had actually performed the mere shooting part of the business, but the genius behind it had been all Erskine’s.

  Magnus, who had no opportunity to read Erskine’s report, was within reason certain what it would contain. It mattered not, he thought – he had discussed the possibility of killing Hildesheim with Captain Hawkins before he had left Hong Kong, and he had little doubt that the word would have been passed to Admiral Seymour and that he would peruse Erskine’s self-glorification with a very sceptical eye.

  From Magnus’ point of view, the glory was unimportant. He had small chance of ever being promoted post captain, whatever he did. No matter what actions he might be involved in, his record was marked ‘Unsound’ for the excesses of his early years. Without a war, then he would remain a commander and, except for a conflict of Napoleonic duration, he would never see admiral. Erskine, however, had never had a thought of his own in his whole life and so had a good chance of making rear-admiral and should use whatever came his way to help him up the ladder and perhaps exercise his gratitude to the man who had helped him to success on the China Station.