All the Tea in China

by Kyril Bonfiglioli

  Blanche recovered but slowly and was less than eager to receive my caresses, nor would she often meet me at the rail for our twilight talks.

  One evening, strolling past the main-mast bitts in search of a cooling breeze, I was accosted by the Irish O’Casey who pointed out to me the beauty of the evening, especially for those fortunate enough to have something to drink in such beauteous circumstances. Desperately lonely, I willingly fetched him a pannikin of what he called “the crater”, which he emptied with many a “God bless yez, Sorr” before commencing to talk.

  “ ’Tis a shockin’ tarror of a life dese times, is it not, Sorr?”

  “I’m afraid,” I said in a benign but Peter-like voice, “that I cannot discuss the failings of any of my superiors with you. Pray keep the conversation general.”

  “Of course, Sorr. I was just t’inking of a Lieutenant I sailed under wance. A great, drunken, red-nosed, rug-headed bastard he was and not a man in the ship but wouldn’t have laughed to see him gibbeted. I t’ink his name was Catt or some such.”

  I made a non-committal noise, not wholly discouraging.

  “And gibbeted he should have been, too, for didn’t I see him murder three men in front of me own eyes? It was in these very waters, now I call it to mind. He was always a man to carry a press of canvas too long with a freshening wind, as you know.”

  I coughed warningly.

  “I mean, you might well have come across the kind of a man I’m speaking of, Sorr.”

  “Just so.”

  “Well it was just one of them occasions; with the wind roaring like the Bull itself and shrieking like the Black Pig, up he sends the foretop men to shorten sail. They lay out along the yard, clinging on for very life, their bare feet clenching on the footropes like canary-birds on a perch, finger-nails torn and bleeding as they fight the bursting canvas – and bursting is the very thing the canvas is likely to do at any moment – while yer lieutenant is dancing on the deck and howling up at the men, calling them idle cowards and names I would be ashamed to hear even in me mother’s mouth. He’s as drunk as the eldest son at a Donegal wake, foaming at the mouth and a black bottle in his hand and at his lips every moment: he’s as full as a Catholic School. Still the men cannot come to grips with the iron-hard canvas, it is as much as they can do to cling to life at all.

  “The after-guard are standing by with axes, ready to clear away wreckage if the ship should be dismasted; the Lieutenant snatches an axe and with one mad, drunken blow, severs the sheet – the yard whips round and three top-men are twitched into the raging sea like musket-balls. No question of lowering a boat into that sea; no question of heaving-to, only a question of can the ship live, and every man working away like a dog at a bitch. But murder it was, black murder, and I seen it. I seen it in the Log, too, when I next had duty aft: ‘Sudden storm this day,’ he’d written, ‘the men surly and idle; I obliged to cut sheets to save the ship; three careless seamen drownd through their own inattention.’ ”

  “But the Lieutenent you speak of was a young man then, O’Casey, and foolhardy, rash?”

  “It was not dat terrible a lot of years ago, Sorr, and the only difference is that in them days he still had a few marks of the gentleman about him. Today he’s a man that would tear Christ off the Cross.”

  “Goodnight, O’Casey,” I said.

  Naturally, I did not believe a word of all this, for he was an Irish, as I think I have said, but nevertheless I passed an uncomfortable night.

  Strangely, while the men were being worked like slaves as we battered our way against contrary winds through the Island passages, continually making, shortening and furling sail, the sullenness did not seem to increase. It is hard for an exhausted man to brood on mutiny: the hardness of his lot cannot compete with the softness of his pillow. You, whose lot has never been hard, will probably not understand this until my death. (In politeness I must add: “You should live so long.”)

  It was later, when we were tearing west and south-west through the Indian Ocean toward the Cape of Good Hope, under all plain sail, that the men, with little to do and some sleep to prompt their appetites, commenced to become seriously surly, to reckon up the hours they spent on deck and to con over and over the little tattered book I had seen circulating, which must, of course, have been the dreaded Seaman’s Friend by the American revolutionary Dana, the arch-sea-lawyer.

  When the Captain was sober the men worked just well enough to escape punishment; when he was drunk they gauged his moods to a “T”, idling when they knew it to be safe, hauling away with a “cheerily-ho!” when his eye was upon them and when they were confident that an issue of grog was in the offing.

  I knew little of the sea and less of the world at that time but I knew enough to know that this was unwholesome. It seems strange to relate but it is true that, even when I held Blanche in my arms, I found myself wishing that Captain Knatchbull was still alive. (I could not – cannot – forget that moment when I stumbled over his head at the entrance to the Great Cabin and my remembrance that it – the head – was still attached to his trunk by a thick shred of the nape of his neck will never leave me. You may think it a small price to pay, but you have only dealt in money and goods: you have never seen a not-quite-severed head.)

  Day followed day; it is impossible to explain to those who have never made a long sea-passage how tediously similar one day in an ocean is to another when the winds are fair, nor could you ever believe how the most trifling incidents can magnify themselves into calamities fit to set an entire ship’s company a-buzz. Let me, simply, say again that the crew became less and less like the jolly Jacks with whom I had set sail from London River, that the Second changed from a taciturn to an utterly silent man, that my dear friend Peter became a stranger who wolfed his food and fell into his bunk with the briefest of “goodnights”, that Orace carried out his duties in a perfunctory and timid way, and that the Captain grew more and more drunken and unpredictable. Sometimes he would not be seen for thirty or forty hours, other times he would rage about the vessel as though determined to make it a floating hell – and an hour later would be clapping every man upon the back, calling him a capital fellow and telling the Bosun to serve out rum to everyone in sight.

  Even I could tell that this was no way to command a ship on the high seas.

  Retribution came soon and arose from that very vice of Dogg’s which O’Casey had spoken of, taking in sail at a minute after the last minute.

  We were running before a fair wind but it was too light for the Captain’s taste and all day long, as he grew drunker and drunker, he sent up more sail until we had staysails alow and aloft, water-sails and save-alls beneath the foot of the topsails; and, high above all, every “kite” that the sail-maker could find or improvise: moon-rakers, a “Jamie Green” or jib-o-jib, even a Yankee-style Jolly Jumper and a “hope-in-heaven”. Peter looked at all this press of canvas gloomily and I recalled his words when we first met: that the John Coram was built for spread, not hoist.

  The Second had the watch; Peter and I were walking the deck in silence. The wind began to freshen and to shift a point here and then a point there. On the horizon there were tropical squalls plain to be seen, like dark-grey tree-trunks joining sea and sky. I noticed, with some uneasiness, that the watch on deck were all gazing aloft, where the extra masts looked no thicker than cabmen’s whips – and were behaving like them.

  At last the Second lifted the speaking-tube and called down to the Captain’s cabin.

  “Permission to shorten sail, Sir, and send down sky-sails.”

  We could clearly hear Dogg’s answer.

  “You have your orders on the watch-slate, Mister. Brace her up to the wind.”

  “Sir, I do not believe she can carry this press of sail much longer.”

  “What she can’t carry she may drag!” came the drunken bellow.

  I tried to catch Peter’s eye, but without success. Looking around, I saw that many of the watch below had silently appeared on deck.
There were ugly looks, both at the poop and at the weather. One or two of the squalls were approaching us fast, it seemed to me, and we were scudding along at a terrifying rate, shouldering the ocean aside like a constable shoving his way through a rabble. The Second drew a deep breath, like a man who expects it to be his last, and lifted the speaking-tube.

  “Sir,” he said flatly, “I formally request you to come on deck and judge the situation with your own eyes. I shall record this request of mine in the Log.”

  The Captain appeared, dishevelled and red-eyed, cursing foully. He looked at the weather, which worsened even as he looked. Then he looked at the sails.

  “Send down all to the royals, Mister, and one reef in all plain canvas.”

  The Second picked up the “trumpet” – for the noise was now deafening – and relayed the order to the Bosun, who yelled it out piecemeal to the watch. Those who were to reef jumped to their work with alacrity but one gang shuffled their feet and did not otherwise move. The Bosun ranted at them but to no avail. He came to the break of the poop.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, Sir, but the top-men won’t go aloft.”

  “Won’t?” roared the Captain, “won’t? What kind of talk is that on ship-board?”

  “Beggin’ yer pardon again, Sir, but there’s only one proper top-man in the gang, Sir, and he’s got an ’and in bandages still.”

  “The men refuse to obey orders?” he whispered horridly.

  “Not exackly, Sir. They just reckon it’s suicide to attemp’ it.”

  To everyone’s astonishment, the ordinarily mute Second cleared his throat and spoke.

  “Forgive me, Sir, but I consider that the men are within their rights. All that raffle of top-hamper will be carried away at any moment and an order which sends men to almost certain death in an effort to save a few light spars and rags of canvas is, by the laws of the sea, an improper order.”

  The Captain slowly turned and smiled at him. This was a disgusting sight, for his teeth were nastier than his face.

  “Pray write your remarks in the Log,” he said. With that he leaped at the futtock-shrouds and scrambled up like some great ape. Every eye in the ship was on him as he swayed and clung and fought the elements and canvas; but, by God, he took in and sent down all. No sane man would have attempted it, no sober man could have done it.

  When he was back on deck, retching for breath and sucking his torn and bloody fingers, he glared about him with a kind of mad happiness.

  “Line up the men who refused to obey orders,” he croaked. “I have just shewn that the orders were reasonable, have I not? Line them up, I say, and bring the cat. I am about to flog every man-jack with my own hands.”

  “Oh no you ain’t, mister bleeding Dogg,” came a Yankee drawl. The Captain whirled about. One of our Calcutta recruits was pointing a little nickel-plated Bulldog pistol at his breast.

  The Captain stood like a stone man for what seemed like a stone age. Wonderfully slowly, gently even, he reached out for the pistol. So persuasive was this gesture that even the coarse American faltered, spellbound until the last moment – but at this last moment he lashed out at the Captain’s knuckles with the barrel of the weapon. Dogg recoiled, snarling, spitting like a cat.

  “If you drop that weapon this instant,” he said in the frightening whisper, “then I shall stretch a point and only have you flogged. If you do not, then I swear I shall stretch your neck. Unless, of course” – here he raised his voice – “any of your mates were so foolish as to support you, which would make it mutiny and hangings for one and all.”

  The American pointed his pistol into the air and fired a shot. This was a signal, clearly. The men who now crowded the deck shifted to and fro and arranged themselves hesitatingly into two groups. There were whispered curses, threats, promises, and several fellows shuffled first to one group, then to another.

  At last all seemed settled.

  “How many?” asked the American over his shoulder, never taking his eyes off the Captain and us other officers.

  “Twenny-eight,” replied one of his accomplices.

  “Fine. Jest fine. Mighty fine. Mister Dogg, you are no longer in command here; I have placed you under arrest as a dangerous lunatic. You are free to leave this vessel, along with your shit-livered officers, who should have locked you up weeks ago. Any men who wish to stay and help work the ship, why, I’ll write their names in the Log and say they had no part in this consarn.”

  There was a shuffling and a muttering from the uncommitted part of the crew; I was reminded perfectly of the crowd-scene in Julius Caesar by W. Shakespeare. Dogg leapt at the American with a strangled yell: he was, as they say, fit to be tied, and tied up is what he was, after some compassionate mutineer had hit him on the head often enough to calm him. Peter and the Second strode into the fray, unarmed, ordering the men to lay down their arms and accept their punishments like honest seamen, but their words carried little weight, for all knew that the only punishment was the stretching of the neck to which Dogg had referred. They, too, were bound.

  I, as a thoughtful man, had reserved my judgment and, when the fellows wielding belaying-pins and pistols looked towards me I may well have been studying the horizon in an abstracted way. I was, after all, only a supernumerary officer.

  There ensued a great deal of sordid bickering and bargaining, during which, to show my contempt for these proceedings, I strolled to the galley and filled my pockets with two double-handfuls of the Doctor’s “tabnabs”. I have always been a practical man.

  Soon all arguments were settled. Dogg, the Second, Peter, the sailing-master and a few ancient mariners of warrant rank who had served Peter’s father were to be set into the long-boat. Blanche was to remain aboard. The mutineers snickered at this. They asked me where I stood. I had been thinking.

  “Where are you bound?” I asked haughtily, brushing a few crumbs from my lips.

  “We’re taking this hooker to the West Indies, brother. When we’ve sold the cargo, why, we’ll jest go into business on our own account. Whole heap of work for a handy little ship in South Americky nowadays, ’spacially if she carries a few guns.”

  “And who, pray, is to navigate you to the West Indies?”

  “You. We seen you taking lessons.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “Guess you kin take your chance in the open boat – but your fancy lady stays here. Calc’late we kin find a use for her.”

  I thought some more. A thousand miles in an open boat with Dogg held few attractions and the chances of survival seemed small in any case. Moreover I was, as I have explained, in love with Blanche.

  “Very well,” I said. “I’ll navigate you to the West Indies; on conditions.”

  “Oh, yeah?” he said (this is how Americans speak, you understand – it means “indeed?”).

  “Yes. First, Mrs Knatchbull not to be molested, on your word as an honest seaman. Second, I am to be put ashore in the West Indies with Mrs Knatchbull and my private cargo. Third, I am to retain my pistol for self-protection – you shall have my parole d’honneur that I shall not attempt to seize the ship with it.” I grinned disarmingly at this point. I am very good at grinning disarmingly – I practise. (Verb. sap.) “Fourth, the Captain, officers and seamen leaving in the boat are to be properly provisioned, watered, supplied with a boat’s-compass and two firearms for use when they reach shore and to be given the ship’s position and a sight of the charts before they leave.”

  The Yankee did not consider long, for he was an intelligent man.

  “No,” he said.

  I reasoned with him, pointing out that behaving in the way I had suggested would lend a colour of legality to his assuming command from an insane Captain; otherwise they were mutineers and would spend all their days in the shadow of the rope. He agreed, at the urging of his accomplices.

  The departure was unpleasant; Dogg raved and cursed, the Second looked at me as though I were something unpleasant he had noticed adhering to the sole of his sh
oe, Peter wrung my hand and gave me a long, anguished look which seemed more to indicate compassion for me than fear for his own survival.

  The mutineers, ignorant fellows, made a trifling mistake which may well have cost them their lives one day. They seized the Second Officer’s beautiful modern sextant for my use but contemptuously let the Captain take his old-fashioned quadrant or “hog-yoke” as they called it.

  “’T’ain’t no use without the star-book,” said the leader knowledgeably, “and thet’s right here on the chart-table.” So it was. As soon as the boat had left I stole to our cabin and studied Peter’s little shelf of books. All his “Jane” Austens were there, also his Catullus and his Norie, but there was a gap at the end of the row where his own copy of the Ephemerides had used to stand. I was mightily comforted. A longitude and latitude, you see, and a course set by a boat’s compass are but rough guides because of the set to leeward, the drift of the current and so forth, whereas with the quadrant, the Ephemerides and Peter’s pocket-chronometer they would be able to fix their position with great accuracy each noon if the weather were clear, and at night, too. Moreover, I had seen the Second having the agreed “sight of the charts”: he had stared at them for quite two minutes – Peter had long ago casually told me that the Second’s brain was freakish, like Lord Macaulay’s: he could memorise a page of print in the time it took to pass his eyes over it. Today we would say that he had a mind like a photographer’s plate.

  Their dangers were still unimaginable but now at least they could not be lost in the waste of waters. I pitied the mutineers if Dogg reached land; he was a man who would hound them to death if it took him all his life.

  That he was not wholly insane was soon evident; when the boat was out of gunshot I saw the little lug-sail come down. Through the telescope I saw her begin to row as though towards us, then turn to port and to port again.

  “Swinging his compass, the ole bastard,” muttered one of the Yankees. “That’s a shaggy wolf from ’way up where the river forks.” I did not understand these words but I relished them, for they were spoken in a voice tinged with apprehension.