Halfhyde on the Yangtze

by Philip McCutchan

  THERE WAS now nowhere to dry Captain Watkiss; the fires were out in the flooded kitchens, and he had perforce to suffer. “I shall take a chill,” he announced pathetically. “I suppose it’s too much to expect the services of a leech, Carstairs?”

  “There are Chinese medical men in the town—if they were available—who practise acupuncture, Captain.”

  “Oh, no, no,” Watkiss said, sounding disagreeable. “I refuse to be stuck with quills like a blasted porcupine.” He gave a realistic shiver. “I shall have to put up with it, that’s all, Carstairs, my dear fellow.”

  Carstairs said, “I doubt if you’ll come to harm. As a sailor you must be used to wet clothing.”

  “That’s quite different. Seawater’s salt, and it harms no one. Where’s that Customs man, Bodmin?”

  “I be ’ere, zur.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake…however, I’m glad you’re safe, Bodmin. What about your…er, wife?”

  “Well, zur, I ’ope she’ll be all right, and I fancy she ought to be, zur, what with all them relatives like—”

  “Yes, yes, but what I’m getting at is this: we have reached the Consulate in accordance with my orders, and now it’s my duty to escort all personnel to my flotilla.” Watkiss paused. “Are you listening, Carstairs?”

  “Yes, I am—”

  “Good, you didn’t appear to be paying attention to me, but since you are, I shall go on. Boats must be commandeered since we can scarcely march through the flood—perhaps you’ll be good enough to see to that at once—”

  “Admiral Hackenticker and Halfhyde are already doing so,” Carstairs interrupted.

  “Oh, are they? I’m glad.” Watkiss swung back to Mr Bodmin. “That is why I enquired about your…er, wife. I take it you’ll accompany me to Shanghai. You’ll not be popular with the dagoes after this; I suppose you realize that?”

  “Ar, zur, but this be ’ome now, zur—”

  “Oh, nonsense, Chungking can’t possibly be home, home’s England, and I shall expect you to be sensible and come out with my flotilla for your own good. There’s still the question of your—”

  “Ar, zur. The old woman, zur. I’ll go an’ get ’er, zur. Might be better, like you said, zur, and they Chinamen, they might take it out on ’er like, so—”

  “Do you know where to find her, Bodmin?”

  “I reckon I do, zur.”

  “But all those relatives!”

  “Some on ’em she don’t like, zur. I’ll find her, zur.”

  Watkiss nodded. “Be quick, then. I shall give you half an hour from now. And positively none of her kin. What about your own person? Will you not be attacked?”

  “No, zur. I’ll be safe for long enough…I got along well with they Chinamen for many a year, and they’ll not turn all that fast, zur.”

  “I hope you’re right. Off you go.” Watkiss turned his back on the former boatswain. “Where’s Lord Edward? Oh, there you are.”

  “Yes, sir.” Lord Edward beamed politely and came to attention.

  “Fall in all hands, Lord Edward, women and children included. Have them ready to embark in the boats when Mr Halfhyde and that American…what exactly are they doing, Carstairs?”

  The Consul was about to reply when the great shattering roar that had interrupted Rear Admiral Hackenticker caused Carstairs to miss a heart-beat. The building shook like a rat in the mouth of a terrier, and everywhere things fell to the floors. Red light flickered across the windows and in that bright light Hackenticker and Halfhyde were momentarily seen urging the dragon-headed Chinese boat across the flood towards the massed, deserted sampans. Captain Watkiss, his balance interfered with by the enormous blast and the vibration, spun like a top and then collapsed on the floor.

  Lord Edward bent and heaved his Captain back to his feet. “Ups-a-daisy, sir!” he said cheerfully.

  “Don’t be impertinent.” Watkiss breathed deeply. He heard crashes and splashes as shattered masonry fell from overhead. Carstairs had vanished with his vice-consul, and Bodmin too had gone, presumably in search of his paramour as ordered. Apart from Lord Edward Cole, only Watkiss and the clergyman remained, the latter once again lying back in the easy chair with his legs stuck out and an empty bottle of John Haig by his side.

  “You there!” Watkiss called sharply. “Can you not lend a hand?”

  There was no answer. “Who and what is he, Lord Edward?” Watkiss demanded.

  Lord Edward explained.

  “Oh, I see, a missionary.” Watkiss sniffed. “All missionaries are a blasted nuisance; they give the natives ideas. Wherever you find missionaries, you find incipient rebellion. I can’t stand parsons of any kind. I hope that damn gun doesn’t go off again. Go and get everyone mustered, if you please, and we’ll make our getaway before it does.”

  “Yes, sir. Er…what about Mr Bodmin, sir?”

  “He must take his chance, Lord Edward. I can’t put women and children in jeopardy because of an old fool who fails to appreciate his age.”

  Twice more the Chinese artillery thundered, and the Consulate seemed in imminent danger of disintegrating. But with the second blast the gun was put out of action, having done what Captain Watkiss had fancied earlier it might do—blown itself to fragments, along with many Chinese, when its charge exploded in the muzzle. For a moment all hell was let loose, and fragments of gun-metal embedded themselves in the broken Consulate walls or were projected through the gaps that had previously been windows. A sliver of jagged metal cut a neat line across the shoulders of Captain Watkiss’ once-white tunic. Watkiss gasped and staggered, felt behind himself, and then put on a noble expression as Lord Edward hastened solicitously to his side.

  “Are you all right, sir?”

  “Yes, yes, I think I am. In any case, I shall continue and not cause a fuss. Is there much blood?”

  “I can’t see any at all, sir.”

  “None?” Watkiss’ face reddened dangerously. “Oh, nonsense, there must be!”

  “Just a very little, sir,” Lord Edward, bred to tact, said.

  “Ah! Well, I must endure.”

  “Yes, sir. When we get back aboard, sir, the po bosun—”

  “Sick berth attendant.”

  “Yes, sir. He—”

  “Yes, yes, yes, it’s gallant enough of you to be so concerned, Lord Edward my dear fellow, but I’m not too seriously wounded, and I shall carry on with the action. Thank God we shall not have to endure more heavy gunfire. Now, get everyone mustered at once, Lord Edward.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Lord Edward hastened away while Captain Watkiss followed more slowly down to the Consulate entrance. Cold and fearful, the civilians assembled under the sheepdog efforts of Lord Edward assisted by a vice-consul who had once been attached to a volunteer battalion of infantry of the line.

  As they all waited at the top of the flood-washed steps, Hackenticker and Halfhyde were seen advancing towards them with a string of sampans tied head to tail behind the dragon-prowed boat with an assortment of makeshift lashings found from socks, boot-laces, braces, handkerchiefs, long pants and strips torn from Halfhyde’s white uniform jacket. Captain Watkiss despatched Lord Edward with a band of volunteers from the Consulate staff to help the progress of the strange rescue fleet by swimming and pushing. At the entrance the Reverend Marchwood Erskine sat in a puddle with his head in his hands and his black bag by his side. Watkiss, outraged, stirred at him with a foot.

  “How dare you!” Watkiss said indignantly. “Sitting about doing nothing!”

  Erskine looked up. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “I am Captain Watkiss of the Royal Navy, and you are as drunk as a fiddler’s bitch. Had I not more respect for your cloth than you appear to have yourself, damme if I wouldn’t kick your backside into the damn water and leave you to the dagoes. What an example! Missionaries…you’re all tarred with the same brush.”

  “I am not drunk, I am—”

  “Oh, balls and bang me arse, don’t argue with me. You are drunk, and that�
��s fact, I said it.” Watkiss turned away distastefully and stood out in the downpour to await the berthing alongside of his sampan fleet. He expected some onslaught from the Chinese, who assuredly would not let them go without further attempts at restraint, but so far, at any rate, there was no more manifestation from the enemy, for which Watkiss gave heartfelt thanks to God. His fleet would be at some distinct disadvantage in any attack. A moment later he heard heavy sounds behind him, a clump of boots and a loud, hectoring voice shouting out monotonously in what Watkiss took to be German, and he remembered that Carstairs had said something about Count von Furstenberg being present and on their side, an unlikely thing, surely.

  He turned.

  A posse of dismounted Hun cavalrymen was marching out from the hall with a sergeant shouting the step. In rear was von Furstenberg himself. The men were halted just inside the doorway and stood at ease; von Furstenberg then advanced upon Captain Watkiss, halted, clicked his heels and dipped his head. Just like a blasted Hun, Watkiss thought angrily, but of course the fellow was a Hun.…

  “Where have you been skulking, may I ask?” Watkiss demanded.

  “Skulking? I do not understand, Captain?”

  “Her Majesty’s Consul told me you were present, but I failed to find you. I assume you to have been skulking with your men where you were safe from the dago artillery—just like Huns.”

  “I think you are rude, Captain—”

  “So do I, and I meant to be,” Watkiss broke in energetically. “You had the damned effrontery to have me arrested and thrown into that stinking gaol—”

  “A misunderstanding, Captain, I assure you—”

  “Misunderstanding my left tit. You are a blasted scoundrel. I shall seek your arrest the moment I reach Hong Kong.”

  “But I am sorry—”

  “Oh, nonsense, Huns are never sorry for anything—”

  “And I offer redress by way—”

  “Hold your tongue, my dear sir.”

  “I shall accompany you, Captain, all of my men spread out among the sampans to help in your defence, with carbines and sabres!”

  “You…oh. Ah. Well, you have a point, perhaps. Yes, I accept your offer, and indeed I would expect no less. You will remember, of course, that you’re under my command, Count von Furstenberg, and you and your men will obey my orders immediately and without question.”

  “But there is an Admiral, an American—”

  “Exactly. As you say, an American. I am British.” Watkiss turned away to find his fleet approaching the Consulate entrance, rather more rapidly now. He bounced along the wide frontage, shouting berthing orders like a pier-master at Clacton-on-Sea, orders that both Hackenticker and Halfhyde found it expedient to ignore as they skilfully brought the ramshackle collection of sampans into position for the embarkation. As each boat came alongside, Lord Edward Cole ushered the waiting persons aboard one by one, ensuring that the children all embarked with one or other parent and that they, with the women, were settled down as safely as possible beneath the straw canopy in the midships or after parts of the boats. As Captain Watkiss, last to embark as befitted both his responsibilities and his rank, put a foot aboard his flag-sampan, there was a shout from the darkness where by now all but one of the storm lanterns had disappeared:

  “Zur, zur, zur! Cap’n Watkiss, zur, it be me and I be ’ere!”

  Into view of the last lantern dangling above the steps, there swept a curious vessel like a tub, the kind of thing from which an early-morning sportsman would shoot wild duck at home in England, only in the latter case stationary and not with way upon it; from this vessel, propelled round and round in giddy circles by a single oar, waved Mr Bodmin whilst a Chinese girl wielded the means of propulsion. Captain Watkiss looked in some astonishment: Bodmin’s “old woman” was certainly a good deal less than half his own age—a good deal less—and was really very pretty. In truth, the former boatswain could be called a baby-snatcher…

  “IT’S MOST unfortunate, Petty Officer Thoms, most unfortunate.”

  “It is, sir, I agree, but—”

  “Is there nothing more you can do?”

  “Not as far as I can see, sir. Not without divers.”

  Mr Beauchamp looked grey, weary and close to tears. “But this—this sawing through the cable…it could take days!”

  “It could, sir, but the ’ands are doing their best.” The carpenter’s mate drew a thumb across the stubble of his chin and studied Beauchamp’s face. The officer looked like cracking up. A fine fellow to put in charge of sailors, but it couldn’t be helped; everyone was doing his best, except maybe Beauchamp himself who had nagged without cease, like a woman. God help sailors on a night like this, thought the carpenter’s mate as he left the bridge and returned downhill to the fo’c’sle and the ear-piercing screech of the saw on the metal link of the cable. Time would do it, but how much time it was hard to say…On the bridge Mr Beauchamp consulted once again with the sub-lieutenant, assuring himself that nothing had been left unattended to.

  “The movable gear, Mr Pumphrey, it’s all secured?”

  “Yes, sir.” Pumphrey steadied himself by clinging to the after guardrail of the bridge. It was like a precipice; the stern was lifted high, and the screw was visible if one cared to look with a lantern.

  “Mess stools, wardroom and cabin furnishings, paint shop, main stores?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The Captain’s ice-box, Mr Pumphrey?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good, good, well, that’s a relief I must say.” Mr Beauchamp turned to look out into the blackness that covered the still-rising Yangtze Kiang. Navigation lights of red and green and white, slowly and aimlessly moving about, indicated that Her Majesty’s gunboats Bee and Wasp were safe and that, too, was a great relief. Two ships safe out of three—Beauchamp dared not think in the true terms of two out of four—perhaps Captain Watkiss would consider that not too bad in the circumstances and really he should not cast blame for acts of God like underwater obstructions that gripped anchors like vices, but he most probably would. It was very unfair, very unfair indeed. Mr Beauchamp had been a lieutenant of more than eight years’ seniority for far too long; he was really a lieutenant of almost fifteen years’ seniority, and he feared that tonight’s ill fortune might well cut him off for ever from the prized brass hat of a Commander in the Royal Navy. It would take a miracle…Mr Beauchamp suddenly praised God, for he believed that the miracle had occurred when a loud shout came from the carpenter’s mate beneath him on the fo’c’sle.

  “Mr Beauchamp, sir!”

  Beauchamp was eager. “Yes, Petty Officer Thoms, is the anchor free?”

  “No, sir, it’s not that, sir. Fact is, we’ve been boarded as you might say.”

  “Boarded, Petty Officer Thoms?”

  “By a dead bullock, sir. Very dead…floated down from upstream and wrapped itself round the forestay.” There was a burst of laughter from the fo’c’sle, but Beauchamp didn’t find it at all funny. Once again, God had let him down. It was becoming a personal vendetta.

  THE SAMPAN fleet drifted in unwieldy and unseamanlike fashion through the apparently deserted city of Chungking. The inhabitants of the low-lying areas along the riverbanks, and further inland as well, had mostly taken themselves off to the higher parts of the town. The houses by the quays were under water right up to the level of the top storeys; many of the shops and dwellings were totally submerged, which made navigation extremely tricky, and at one stage the head of the line deviated under the guidance of Mr Bodmin into what he said was the Street of the Prostitutes.

  “How do you know that?” Watkiss demanded.

  “It be a guess, zur.” Bodmin pointed towards a high-set clothes-line from which dozens of pairs of ladies’ silk pyjama trousers dangled into the floodwater, visible in the boat’s lantern. “I takes bearings from that, zur.”

  “Oh, it’s scarcely positive, is it?”

  “No, zur.”

  “Then you can’t be
sure we’re in the Street of the blasted Prostitutes, can you?”

  “No, zur. But I be fairly sure all the same like.” There was a hint of stubbornness in Bodmin’s voice. “I reckon we’d best execute a ninety-degree turn, zur, an’ come out clear into the main stream.”

  Watkiss breathed hard down his nose. “I’m responsible for the safety of a large number of persons, Mr Bodmin, and I need more precise information. Be more explicit.”

  “Ar, zur.” Bodmin looked down momentarily at the young Chinese girl: she had only a word or two of English, and it might be all right. Bodmin coughed and cleared his throat, then spoke to the Captain behind the cover of a hand. “Some o’ they drawers, zur. They pyjamas like. There be a rare quantity of ’em. I recognizes whose they may be!”

  Watkiss glared. “What a disgusting old man you are to be sure, Mr Bodmin.” He passed orders for the turn, and the long line of sampans came round in very unfleetlike fashion but made it safely back into the main stream or street without grounding upon brothel premises. Throughout the manoeuvre there was a look of something like awe in Bodmin’s face: he was thinking it was about time to leave Chungking…it would be a good long while before those sunken premises would be fit for trade again. The sampans were pulled onward by the oarsmen, with Count von Furstenberg’s waterborne Uhlan Lancers staring to right and left behind their carbines and sabres, Count von Furstenberg himself sitting in solemn state in the rearmost sampan sharing a bottle of John Haig with the man who had revealed all, though this he did not as yet know. Erskine was keeping his own counsel, saying little between nips and hiccups. After some while of safe and steady progress, with no attack from the Chinese other than a few verbal insults hurled from marooned upper rooms, the leading boat grounded upon some sharp obstruction, and Watkiss found himself sitting in a deepening puddle.

  “Damn it, we’ve sprung a leak, Mr Bodmin. Abandon ship!” Watkiss and Bodmin together shepherded the sampan’s occupants into the second boat of the line, which was brought neatly alongside by Rear Admiral Hackenticker. Hackenticker’s boat became overcrowded to a possibly dangerous extent, and there was a General Post whilst the extra persons were farmed out into the following craft and Watkiss’ sampan gradually filled and sank. It was while all this was in progress that a single shot was heard from close by, then a number of others.