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

by Andrew Wareham

  “Picked it up from an American who came through last year – good name for ‘em, I think. The Kaiser’s faithful, you know, my lord, the Prussians with their monocles and heel-clicking.”

  “Ah! An Americanism! That does explain the term, you know, sir. No doubt a reference to sauerkraut. I doubt I shall use it myself. I think that Russia and Germany are on fairly bad terms just at the moment. Germany has a permanent eye to the east, apparently has had for donkey’s years, since the days of the Teutonic Knights. Germany has a growing population – seems to go with industry, for some reason – and Russia has vast wheatlands and too few people to use them efficiently, so I am told. Very tempting! Add to that, Russia ain’t really European – too much of the Asiatic about them for the German’s taste. ‘Yellow Peril’ and all that damned nonsense, you know…”

  Blantyre nodded thoughtfully.

  “Just suppose that word had got to St Petersburg that the British had slapped the Germans down on the Yangtse… Sending a naval squadron on a friendly visit is by way of cocking a snook at the Kaiser, do you think?”

  Magnus considered that point, was forced to concede that it might well be valid. He was unwilling to do so – diplomacy and such was the preserve of the aristocracy, by its very nature, and Blantyre, kindly and intelligent though he might be, was certainly not of the right stock to be involved in foreign affairs.

  “I shall certainly wish to see what Empingham has to say, sir. I shall make your point to him. It will be interesting to hear his response – I expect he will send an urgent message to Hong Kong. By the way, sir, just how did you originally come to know of Empingham’s field of interest?”

  “Oh, everybody knows he’s a spy. Can’t keep things like that secret, not from the folk who’ve got money and need to know what’s what.”

  Magnus was amused; he would mention the conversation to Captain Hawkins when next he saw him.

  Captain Erskine was vaguely interested in the news.

  “Good few Russians in Shanghai, you know, Eskdale. In the tea trade, of course, and selling furs. Not sure what else they’re into… Some few are politicals, of course, got out of Russia for being at odds with the Tsar for one reason or another. There’s a bunch of them who are some sort of Reds, but most just want to see an elected parliament with a say in running the country. Harmless enough, the bulk of them, I expect. Empingham will know more of that sort of thing than ever I would. Can’t say I’m much concerned, myself…”

  “Have the Russians sent a squadron here before, sir? You have been longer in Shanghai than I, will know more of how they behave on shore.”

  “Oh, no fears there, Eskdale. They don’t let the bulk of their people off the ships – they have no money anyway and are best kept safely out of harm’s way. Mostly what’s happened in the past has been that the police put a bigger than usual picket on duty on the Bund, just in case and to keep everything quiet that way. As I remember, they pick up a few would-be deserters and throw them back and that’s it. Don’t want Russian seamen with no language or skills wandering about the Concessions and turning criminal for starving. Better to send ‘em straight back and turn a blind eye to what happens then.”

  Magnus did not quite understand the last comment.

  “Russians still flog their men, Eskdale. Lay on a thousand without turning a hair! Publicly, on deck in full view. No use of a cat, either, they have a damned great thick whip for the purpose; it’s a killer – their Jacks don’t come back for a second dose.”

  “They are unashamed, you would say, sir, to be seen to treat their people so?”

  “Unashamed? They’re bloody proud, man! I can remember well one of their lieutenants telling me that we were too soft on our men – on his ship they beat a man to death every month at least, just to keep the others in line, to remind them of what could happen.”

  “Good God!”

  “Shook me, I’ll tell you, Eskdale. I won’t say that I’m the most soft-hearted of men, but that’s well beyond the pale – not the way for a gentleman to go on.”

  Magnus agreed.

  “I’m surprised the police were willing to send men back to that. They seem efficient enough, but they’re not generally brutal.”

  The bulk of the constables and sergeants of the police force were Sikh, ex-soldiers brought from India, as volunteers, to earn a respectable wage and live far better than was possible in their homeland. They tended to be inflexible to the Chinese, carrying and using lathis, long flexible sticks, to enforce their orders, but they were generally courteous and normally gave a command before they hit out, offering the choice of obedience or pain. The police had very little to say to the whites, of course but could, when the rare occasion arose, be willing to enforce the criminal law.

  “The police don’t like it, Eskdale. I recall that last time they sent a couple of Russians back and then caught no more when they saw what happened. Their choice – they probably preferred to deal with them more quietly. Possibly put them on merchantmen going out. None of my business.”

  Magnus agreed that to be the case and went to speak with Empingham.

  The intelligence officer was moderately enthusiastic.

  “Russians, sir? I wonder what ships. I shall get the cameras out and ready. There’s one or two new cruisers and battleships on station – worth taking a look at them. I’ll pass the word to the ladies to talk to their officers; those who have any French or Russian, that is, a few of the womenfolk are educated.”

  “French?”

  “Most aristocratic Russians speak French, often using it in preference to their own language. One of these damned stupid pieces of snobbery – ‘Russian only good for the peasantry’, you know. Nasty pieces of work, most of the Russian officers, or so I’m told. “

  “So Captain Erskine implied.”

  “He has met them, I believe, sir. By the way, how did you come to hear of the Russian squadron?”

  “Commercial sources, Empingham. My wife’s father mentioned that he had heard that they were coming – apparently they generally prefer to go south for the winter – like geese.”

  “Ah yes, so they do. Not normally to Shanghai, though.”

  The attempted wit passed well over Empingham’s head – he had little concept of the humorous. He thought he should take some action, though unsure what.

  “I shall send word to Hong Kong, sir. Admiral Seymour might wish to send a ship or two to Shanghai, just to show willing. Barfleur, probably, to make it clear that we are the naval power hereabouts, for the benefit of the Chinese as much as anything. A ten inch battleship should make the point sufficiently.”

  Racoon, otherwise the largest ship on station, made very little point at all, Magnus appreciated – the smallest of cruisers and sadly outdated by appearance, she was not impressive.

  “If the Russians have modern cruisers, then Racoon will look more than a little silly, Empingham. I’m more than half inclined to ask Captain Erskine to send me off on a cruise.”

  “Wiser not, sir, if it can be avoided. We might well have a value for your crew at least if they start riots off in the Chinese quarter. No money, you never know what tricks the Russian sailors might get up to. No respect for the Chinese at all, you know, sir.”

  “I don’t think my one hundred and seventy or so of jacks will do a lot of good against a pair of eight inch gun cruisers, Empingham.”

  “Possibly not, sir. Still, we always say that one British tar is worth a dozen foreigners, you know, sir.”

  “You may well be right, Empingham. I shall not wish to put it to the test, however.”

  Magnus forgot about the Russians for the while – the word came that they had put into Port Arthur and they seemed to have settled in there. Time passed in training and socialising and then one afternoon a great cloud of black coal smoke showed miles away in the estuary and a squadron hove slowly into view. The officer of the watch took up the telescope and called for the captain to come to the conning tower.

  “Three w
arships, sir. One of them must be a battleship, sir. The second I would class as an armoured cruiser and the third is far smaller, no more than our size and difficult to make sense of. Barely making five knots against tide and current together, sir.”

  “Ready the saluting party. Inform Mr Brownrigg. Mr Mason to me, please.”

  A slow hour and the Russians came within easy range and could be identified.

  “Battleship is new, sir. Launched this year and fresh on station. One of the Petropavlosk class, all of them are due to come out to the Pacific station, according to the last Admiralty report. Twelve inch and twelve of six inch, sir, together with torpedo boat guns, the better part of forty of three and one pounders. Carries torpedo tubes and mines as well, sir. From the report, it seems that the mines are to be laid as floaters, the aim being to cross the course of your enemy and draw them onto the explosives. Typical bloody Russian idea, sir.”

  “Quite, Mr Mason.”

  “Armoured cruiser, sir, is Admiral Nakhimov, one of a kind and a straight copy of our Imperieuse. Big, sir – eight of eight inch guns in barbettes and ten six inch. Smaller stuff as well. A big crew.”

  Evidently the weeks of idleness effected Mason – he had read and reread the Admiralty reports.

  “What is that third ship, Mr Mason? No greater than Racoon, but that is a massive gun she’s carrying forward.”

  “I think that is what they call an armoured gun vessel, sir. Possibly one of the Grozyashchi class. If so, that is a nine inch main armament together with a six inch at the stern. The six inch will fire to either broadside but the big gun is limited to firing forward, with a small traverse. A mixture of smaller guns as well together with tubes and mines. I think they are more or less like a monitor, designed for shore bombardment more than anything else.”

  The battleship came to anchor out in the stream while the cruiser and gun vessel tied up to pontoons. They exchanged salutes with Racoon and the French and Italian gunboats also in port.

  “Very sloppy, Mr Mason. Is that a vice-admiral’s flag?”

  “I believe so, sir. Strange for so small a squadron to have a senior man commanding.”

  “Only part of the squadron, perhaps, Mr Mason. The remainder carrying on south while these three are stopping off for repairs. They tell me that Port Arthur has only very limited facilities yet. If the battleship has steamed here from St Petersburg than she might well be in need of the services of a yard. She would be wiser to go to Hong Kong, if that’s the case.”

  Mason suggested that the Russians would prefer to use a commercial yard in Shanghai rather than a naval dock. It would be humiliating to come begging of the Royal Navy.

  “It would, too. Be interesting to see if she draws her fires.”

  Shutting down the boilers would make it clear that the battleship intended to stay for several days. The absence of coal smoke would make it clear if they had done so.

  By nightfall the battleship and cruiser had both settled in. The gun vessel remained on call, however, a wisp of coal smoke at her funnel tops.

  “Have you got the names of the two unknown ships, Mr Mason?”

  “Yes, sir. Translated – and their names are shown in the book in their Russian lettering as well, sir – they are the battleship Poltava and the gun vessel Otvajni. The gun vessel is slow, sir, no more than fourteen knots. Not a very handy ship, I would say. She’s in dirty condition, that’s for sure.”

  “Strange! She’s directly under her admiral’s eye. One might expect her to be particularly smart under such conditions. Her captain cannot be up to anything if he will not even keep his ship clean.”

  Mason, his first lieutenant’s soul revolted by the grime he could see, and the worse that he could imagine, thought that the captain must be unable to enforce his orders.

  “He cannot wish to be surrounded by filth, sir. The sole possible explanation is that his crew habitually refuses his orders.”

  “No, surely not, Mr Mason. Was she in mutiny then we would have seen boatloads from the battleship and cruiser sent across to bring her back under control.”

  “Certainly should be so, sir. Would be in the Navy, sir. Perhaps the Russians don’t trust any of the crews, sir?”

  “You mean that instead of putting down any mutiny they might join it, Mr Mason? Are things that bad in the Russian fleet?”

  Mason could not be sure, but he had heard reports that the Russians relied upon conscripted peasants for their crews, boys and young men who had never previously seen the sea, or anything other than the confines of a tiny village. The food was alien to them and sailing came hard, particularly in the absence of training and the presence of the whip to make them obey incomprehensible orders.

  “As for gunnery, sir! One hears time after time of men dead and mutilated by accidents that should never have occurred, simply because the gun crews do not know what they are doing, and their officers do not care.”

  “Mutiny must always be simmering in their minds, Mr Mason. That and desertion. Take some care to ensure that our men are not ashore at the same time as the Russians, Mr Mason. I am told they do not permit shore leave to the bulk of their people, but I would prefer that ours did not have the opportunity to mock the few who do get ashore.”

  “Officers, sir? Hospitality?”

  Magnus needed to think about that question. Tradition demanded that there should be ship-visiting and that the wardrooms should dine each other. Political and wider service considerations might suggest that relations should be kept cool and that the ships should not fraternise.

  “I don’t know what the Admiralty would wish, Mr Mason. I shall speak to Captain Erskine, and he no doubt will seek advice from Hong Kong. I cannot take my own decision in ignorance. If any approach is made then offer courtesy – as goes without saying – but unfortunately I am ashore and cannot give an immediate response.”

  “Safer that way, sir. What if we become aware of deserters, sir?”

  Magnus wanted to say that Mr Mason should not become aware of them, but that was to place a burden on him that was unfair. The responsibility must rest with the captain.

  “Do not permit them aboard, Mr Mason. Warn the sentries to question the identity of any unknown non-Chinese foreigners who try to pass them, whatever their excuse might be. That said, they are none of our business on shore. If you are specifically requested to, as a possibility, assist the police to make an arrest, then you cannot really refuse. Say that you are on shore with a work party – then you must assist the civil power, provided the circumstances are clear. Again, I shall seek an order from Captain Erskine – he is Senior Naval Officer and must lay down the rules for the port.”

  “To an extent inhumane, sir, that we should turn the blind eye to the abuse of human beings by vicious brutes in officers’ clothing.”

  “And with no other attribute of an officer? You are correct, as goes without saying, but the demands of diplomacy will come first. A complaint from the Russian government to Westminster that we had encouraged mutiny and desertion in their men would not go down well, I am afraid. I doubt that our political masters regard Russian peasants as human beings and I am certain that they will care nothing for their tribulations. They will simply dismiss them as Reds, and of no interest to us. Record all that you see, Mr Mason, and you may accidentally allow your notes to come to the attention of The Times when you return to London. But, more than that? No.”

  It was by no means uncommon for naval and army officers to inform The Times of abuses they had discovered overseas, and it was a recognised means of pressuring the government of the day into action. It was not without risks for the career of the officer involved when, inevitably, his identity was disclosed, normally after a lapse of some years, occasionally immediately when the editor of The Times found himself opposed to the officer’s particular politics. Very senior officers – generals and admirals – often submitted articles under their own names, Charlie Beresford much in the habit, but juniors took a risk, not having their elde
rs’ degree of impunity.

  Mason did not think that he would take the chance of receiving a posting to the Slavery Patrol off the coast of Somaliland, a common reward for politically indiscreet young officers. The climate, the interesting local diseases and gin and whisky between them still killed three out of four men in that location.

  “The Russians can look after themselves, sir. I am sorry for them, but not to so great an extent as to end my career for them.”

  “As so often, Mr Mason, I find myself in agreement with you.”

  Captain Erskine thought, now that Magnus had persuaded him of the need, that he should write an order for the guidance of British ships in port while the Russians remained. It was irritating work, having to think and set pen to paper.

  “What are the greatest concerns, in your mind, Eskdale?”

  “Deserters swimming across in the night, sir. Won’t be many of those – peasants from the Steppes won’t be much in the way of swimming, sir. In any case, twenty minutes in the Yangtse and they’ll have small chance of survival.”

  Erskine grimaced his agreement; it constantly amazed him that a fast-flowing river could nonetheless stink like a stagnant pond.

  “Sentries at night then, Eskdale. The decks to be lit. Simple enough! Next?”

  “Disorder in the streets, sir. Fighting between crews; assaults upon officers out of the dark; God knows what sort of misconduct in the Chinese parts.”

  “Warnings to men on shore-leave. I had better talk to the Provost people and to the Marines and to the civilian police. Do you want your Marines returned to Racoon, Eskdale?”

  All of the Royal Marines had been taken ashore and formed an addition to the thin garrison of the Concessions. When the Chinese objected to their presence they could be argued to be seamen passing through, not soldiers permanently posted to Shanghai. They were seen by the authorities to be vital to the defence of Shanghai, should that ever be necessary.

  “Wiser not to bring them back on board, sir. They leave me only a little short-handed – I have been able to shift many of the stokers out of the engine room, replacing them with unofficial coolies – and that enables me to man the guns and sail the ship under steam. We do not use sail, sir.”