Halfhyde on the Yangtze

by Philip McCutchan

  “I trust we shall, Mr Halfhyde.” Watkiss glared as terraced hillsides swept past farther away to port and starboard, hills that were holding the floodwater back from spreading, thus keeping it sufficiently deep for his progress. Not far ahead, so said the chart, the Yangtze took a wide north-easterly sweep towards the Chutang Gorge, and before they reached the gorge the floodwaters must surely be contained within the river bed even though ships might pass through at a great height and the current would be fast to the point of extreme danger…After some fifty minutes of acute anxiety, Halfhyde reported that the Yangtze was once again beneath them and that they were set upon their course for the Chutang Gorge. As Cockroach took the river and the main stream of the current, her speed increased rapidly, and she seemed to hurtle along like an express train, with Bee and Wasp, dead bullocks and general debris hurtling after her.

  “Damn it, Mr Halfhyde, we’re not under control, are we?”

  “Not fully, sir—”

  “Then hoist your balls, man, hoist your balls!”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Halfhyde gave an order to the yeoman of signals and the Not Under Control balls, black-painted, tar-stiffened spheres of canvas, were hoisted to the starboard upper yardarm of Cockroach’s single mast. This, after an interval, was repeated by both Bee and Wasp as they rushed along similarly hell-bent.

  “This is a pretty kettle of fish, Mr Halfhyde.”

  “No more than was to be expected, I think, sir.”

  Watkiss bounced on the balls of his feet. “But what about the gorges, Mr Halfhyde? I cannot make the passage of the gorges whilst being hurled along like an arrow from a bow!”

  Halfhyde smiled. “It will be difficult, I agree. However, it’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good, sir, is it not?”

  “What do you mean?” Watkiss asked suspiciously.

  “Why, sir, the Russians out of Port Arthur. They’ll make no progress up river against such a current, and I’d not now expect to see them before Kiukiang at the earliest.”

  “Yes, perhaps, but I didn’t expect to find them so far up as this anyway, Mr Halfhyde, anyone would be a fool if they did.” Watkiss moved back and forth along his bridge while rain bounced off his oilskins. There was still the matter of Bloementhal: that must, of course, be settled before there was any encounter with Russian vessels, but for the moment, and indeed for some hours to come, the safety of his flotilla must be Watkiss’ first concern and Bloementhal must wait upon that. Watkiss announced his intention of remaining upon the bridge until all three gorges had been safely negotiated, and that at their current speed the Chutang should be reached a good deal earlier than had been expected.

  Halfhyde concurred. “By nightfall, I estimate, sir, and possibly sooner.”

  “Yes. I suggest you put the telegraph to stop, Mr Halfhyde. We have still to conserve fuel, have we not?”

  “We have, sir, but the saving will be very small so long as we keep steam on the main engine at all, whilst we can’t risk shutting down the boilers entirely.”

  “Precisely so, Mr Halfhyde, I am not a fool, but every little helps, does it not?”

  Halfhyde shrugged. “Yes, sir—”

  “Then the telegraph to stop, Mr Halfhyde, and kindly inform Bee and Wasp accordingly.”

  Halfhyde passed the orders somewhat reluctantly. There was risk in it: to “coast” down upon the gorges would mean that each ship would lose its ability to respond on the instant to any changing situation—perhaps not for long, but for long enough to cause trouble while the engine-room put the silent engine back into gear so that the screw could turn again. However, it was perhaps less of a risk than running out of coal.

  The flotilla sped on upon its long voyage to Shanghai and the open sea.

  “AH, MR Bloementhal, just the very man I wanted to see.” Rear Admiral Hackenticker had been having a good think about Bloementhal, who sure looked like being the villain of the piece if Watkiss was right, or if that Chinese girl was right, to be more accurate. Hackenticker had a strong feeling she wouldn’t have risked inventing the whole thing, and anyway she looked honest as the day was long, though it sure could be hard to read a Chinese face. Anyway, she couldn’t have any axe of her own or Bodmin’s to grind. Meantime, Watkiss was busy on his bridge, so it wouldn’t hurt to have a word himself with Bloementhal who was, after all, his own countryman. After a search, Bloementhal had come to light taking some sort of shelter beneath the Cockroach’s cutter griped-in to the davits abaft the bridge. He looked thoroughly damp and dispirited, suffering badly from the overcrowded conditions.

  “Hi there, Admiral,” he said, waving a hand morosely.

  Hackenticker squatted on his haunches for easier speech. “You look pretty miserable. Aren’t they feeding you, or something?”

  “I had some breakfast, Admiral, what I need’s a drink.”

  “Scotch?”

  “Sure!”

  “Come along with me, then. I have a flask.” Hackenticker resumed an upright position, and Bloementhal crawled out from under the davits and followed him below. Hackenticker went by way of the paint store, outside which stood an armed marine as sentry on the arrested German. The sentry made no difficulties about admitting the Rear Admiral, and obligingly unlocked the door.

  “What the heck,” Bloementhal said.

  “Bear with me a while,” Hackenticker said. He went in. Count von Furstenberg was reclining in a deck chair, eating a wrinkled-looking apple, taking great bites with big yellow teeth and munching the results. “Good morning, Count.”

  The apple-eating was held in abeyance. “A good morning to you, Admiral.” The German grinned. “See, I am so polite to my captors, to my enemies!”

  “Why be enemies all the while, Count? We can all be civilized in between times, can’t we? We’re all gentlemen—”

  “I am a von.” The apple was bitten again.

  “Yes, indeed. No reason why we shouldn’t take a drink together that I can see.” Hackenticker produced his whisky flask, a vast affair of pewter, more like a bottle. The German’s eyes gleamed. “May we come in and join you, Count? Your pied-à-terre is rather bigger than mine.”

  “But of course.” Von Furstenberg heaved himself from the deck chair and gave a small bow and a heel-click. “You are most welcome, gentlemen, but be careful of the paint which is everywhere in profusion.”

  They went in, found seats wherever it was possible to obtain bottom-hold, and Rear Admiral Hackenticker unscrewed the stopper of his flask.

  THIS TIME Mr Beauchamp was not in open arrest but, since his crime had been so heinous, in close arrest, which meant he was now confined to his quarters. His quarters were not his own cabin, which had been required for the accommodation of some of the unfortunate passengers from Chungking, but a windy and wet compartment situated on deck immediately above the paint store—a compartment normally reserved for the various items of deck-cleaning gear such as scrubbers and squeegees, mops, holystoning equipment and caulking materials like tar and oakum. Outside in the rain shivered Mr Pumphrey as Mr Beauchamp’s warder. Normally an officer in close arrest was entitled to become the personal responsibility of an officer of his own rank, but Watkiss had felt unable to waste his more senior officers upon such a task when danger threatened, and this inability had forced him initially to accept Beauchamp’s word that he wouldn’t escape. However, after Mr Pumphrey had lost his way upon the floodwater, he had become better fitted for such a task than to be allowed upon the bridge; and had been so detailed, even though he was a mere sub-lieutenant.

  As Pumphrey shivered and grew more and more depressed as to his future vis-à-vis Captain Watkiss, a tap came upon the door he was guarding, and it was opened from within. Mr Beauchamp looked out nervously as though half expecting to be sprung upon by Captain Watkiss. “Ah, Mr Pumphrey.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I feel a little sick. The smells of tar and oakum and so forth.”

  “I’m sorry, sir—”

  “If you would be so
kind, Mr Pumphrey.” Suddenly, Mr Beauchamp came out at the rush and Pumphrey stepped quickly aside. Beauchamp flew for the rail and bent over. When he had finished, he felt quite washed-out and cold and was indeed shaking all over as though with the ague. As he turned, he saw that Pumphrey had been joined by ex-Boatswain Bodmin, who was wagging his head and clicking his tongue.

  “Well, I never did, zur. Seasick like, zur?”

  “No. Tar and oakum, Mr Bodmin.”

  Bodmin raised his shaggy eyebrows, then understanding dawned. “Ar, zur, I see what ee means. The whole ship be topsy turvy like, with people livin’ in—in unsuitable places, zur. ’Tis the luck o’ the draw, like, zur.” He peered into the deck store. “All the same like, ee ’ave a better place ’n what I ’ave, though that’s nothin’ but right an’ proper, o’ course, seein’ ee be a wardroom gentleman, zur.”

  Beauchamp wiped his mouth and continued shaking. He turned sad eyes upon Bodmin. “I’d appreciate your company if you can spare the time, Mr Bodmin. Won’t you come in?” He indicated his abode.

  Bodmin nodded, “Ar, zur, and thankee.” He walked in, followed by Beauchamp, and Pumphrey, somewhat hesitantly, closed the door upon them, whereat Mr Bodmin registered some alarm, for stirrings in his memory reminded him of the interpretations that could be placed in Her Majesty’s service upon the proximity of two male persons in a deck store. However, it was not for him to give the orders and certainly the door kept out the rain and the chill air.

  Mr Beauchamp came out with it bluntly. “I’m in arrest, Mr Bodmin, that’s why you see me in this place.”

  “In arrest, zur?” Mr Bodmin held his head back, pursed his lips, and frowned. “In arrest ee be, zur? Accused o’ some crime or other, zur?”

  “Yes, Mr Bodmin, and most unfairly. I’ve been very poorly treated by Captain Watkiss!”

  “Ar, zur. Well, zur, Cap’n Watkiss, ’e do be a short tempered man, zur, was even as a nipper, but ’arf the time ’e don’t mean it like, zur. ’E be full o’ bullshit, zur, if ee’ll pardon the expression.”

  “Yes. You’ve served with him before—I remember. Did he put people in arrest in those days too?”

  “No, zur, ’e warn’t senior enough, zur, ’e were no more’n a midshipman what relied upon ’is cox’n to ’andle ’is boat for him, zur, an’ if ’e’d ’ave tried to put the cox’n in arrest, why zur, cox’n ’d ’ave died laughin’, zur.” Bodmin paused. “Just you try thinkin’ o’ that, zur, next time ’e torments you like.”

  “Yes, I will. Thank you, Mr Bodmin.”

  “That be all right, zur.” Bodmin hesitated. “This crime, zur, you’re not guilty do I take it?”

  Beauchamp said with extreme bitterness, “How does anyone know whether or not they’re guilty in Captain Watkiss’ eyes? I did my best, but Captain Watkiss thinks I did it wrong.”

  “Ar, zur. So it’s to do wi’ duty like, zur, not summat grave in the sense o’—”

  “No, no. My handling of the ship in his absence.”

  Light dawned, and Mr Bodmin nodded. “Oh, ar, zur, I do understand now. Like when we found the ship standin’ on ’er ’ead and the cable all fouled up, and—”

  “Yes, yes!”

  “Ar, zur, yes, I do understand. Yes, reckon I do…” The sympathy seemed to be leaving Bodmin’s tone somewhat; after all, he was a boatswain of the old school, of the sailing navy, and probably in his day keel-hauling would have awaited any officer who had held a ship down by her snout to drown while the waters rose around her. Beauchamp was willing to accept a degree of blame but still felt very hard done by: surely open arrest would have been enough—he was used to that and it was no great inconvenience once you’d acclimatized…all at once he became aware of a change in Mr Bodmin’s expression: the old fellow was in an attitude of listening, and his starboard ear was being gradually pressed closer and closer to the inboard bulkhead of the smelly deck store.

  “What is it, Mr Bodmin?”

  Bodmin placed a tobacco-stained forefinger against his lips. “Voices, zur. Talkin’ like.”

  “Where?”

  “Somewhere below, zur. There must be a pipe or summat comin’ up the bulk’ead t’ other side.”

  “Whose voices?”

  “One o’ ’em’s that there American, zur, Admiral Hackenticker. I ’ear the ’Un too, zur, Count von Furstenberg, I reckon.”

  “Do you think it’s right to—”

  “Sssssh, zur, with respect like.”

  COUNT VON Furstenberg had taken a fairly large quantity of Scotch and had taken it neat. So had Bloementhal. The German, with his head against an ascending ventilation shaft, was taken by surprise when the shaft hissed at him suddenly, and he gave a loud belch and reached out his hand for Hackenticker’s flask. The American passed it over. Von Furstenberg took a gulp, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and passed the flask on to Bloementhal. “Good spirit, very good. Not much drunk in my country.”

  “You drink beer, I believe, Count?”

  “Lager from Pilsen and much wine, yes. Much wine. A little schnapps. I am a lager man.” Von Furstenberg patted his noble stomach in proof. He belched again and smiled.

  “We were saying,” Hackenticker said meaningly, and watched Bloementhal’s face without appearing to.

  “Yes, yes, we were saying.” A few words of German were gobbled out like a turkey with a sore throat. “This is my time of relaxation. Arrest does not worry me—the stupid British Captain will get his deserts from my Kaiser, who will complain much to his grandmother in Windsor Castle. Politics, work…no, I shall not discuss more.” The Count waved his arms around the paint store, dangerously, and only just missed a can of turpentine. “We are all good, good friends, no? Yes?”

  “I guess so,” Hackenticker answered. “Some of us more than others, maybe.” He paused and sat well back beneath a shelf bearing what seemed to be hundreds of cans of white paint and a few dozen pounds of putty. He gave an appearance of the relaxation desired by Count von Furstenberg; he yawned largely and said, “The Peking Legation, Mr Bloementhal.”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “When you were there…did you ever meet an old guy by the name of Colonel O’Flynn?”

  “O’Flynn?”

  “Right. Mickey O’Flynn.”

  Bloementhal considered. “No,” he said at length. “No, I never met anyone of that name in Peking.”

  “You must have heard of him? That old guy Bodmin now…Mickey O’Flynn is kind of Peking’s Bodmin with a difference. O’Flynn was once a colonel in the US Eighth Cavalry. Flamboyant, likes his Scotch. Irish immigrant family settled in Texas. One of the pioneers who opened up the West. Always around the Legation and known to all.”

  “Yes. I do remember something, Admiral.” Bloementhal was being off-hand, casual.

  “Thought you would. Mickey wasn’t attached to the Legation, not officially. He has trading interests around Peking, as I recall, but he keeps in touch a lot.”

  “Sure.”

  “You heard of him, then?”

  Bloementhal said dismissingly, “Oh, sure, sure. They talked about him…when you mentioned Texas and that, well, I remembered.”

  “Thought you would,” Hackenticker said again, then went on, “Where in the States do you come from, Mr Bloementhal?”

  “Upstate New York. Watertown.”

  “You’ll know Sackets Harbor?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good sailing…Lake Ontario.”

  “I’m no sailing man, Admiral.”

  Hackenticker laughed. “Neither am I. Funny, that, for a sailor! I was always a big ship man, a battleship man for preference. I go for solidity.”

  “Not a bad thing to go for, Admiral.”

  “No. Mickey O’Flynn is like that, too. Likes things big, did you ever hear that?”

  “I don’t know.” Bloementhal answered shortly. He was, Hackenticker saw, becoming restively cagey. That was interesting. “I don’t know how he likes things. Should I?”

&nb
sp; “Well, now, I suppose not. Only he was such a great old character around the Legation and that was one of the things they talked a lot about. How Mickey O’Flynn liked things big. How he built the biggest barn, grew the biggest grapefruit, wore the biggest hat.” A number of other bignesses emerged. “Big in all things little, Mr Bloementhal. Have another Scotch.”

  “Thanks.”

  Once more the enormous flask was passed and there was a silence whilst Bloementhal drew from it. Then Bloementhal laughed and said, “Tell you one thing about Mickey O’Flynn, and that is, he doesn’t exist.”

  Hackenticker’s eyebrows went up. “Now, if that’s the case, why in heck have I been talking about him, Mr Bloementhal?”

  “Let’s say, trying to catch me out on something?”

  “Why should I do that?”

  Bloementhal shrugged. “You tell me, Admiral. But that’s what it’s been sounding like to me…describing this big-liking Irish Texan who seems to me very considerably larger than life—”

  “Just what Mickey O’Flynn is. He exists all right, Mr Bloementhal, as is well-known to anyone who’s been within a hundred miles of our Legation in Peking. Which means you haven’t. Maybe it’s not a lot to go on, but added to other things it grows and grows.”

  Bloementhal remained calm and sardonic outwardly, but there was a new tension in the air of the paint store, and he seemed to be holding himself ready to jump someone, coiled like a spring. He said, “So how do you explain your own signature on my authority to ask British transportation, and how do you explain the fact that the Legation got you to countersign and onforward what was an official document?”

  Hackenticker grinned. “That raises other interesting points, Mr Bloementhal, since I don’t deny there was indeed a Bloementhal attached to the Peking Legation. Maybe we’d better talk about that.”

  “ZUR, ZUR!”

  “Yes, Mr Bodmin?”

  “Did you ’ear that, zur?” Both Bodmin and Beauchamp had their ears to the bulkhead now, eavesdropping without shame. “I reckon it were a blow, zur, fisticuffs.”

  Beauchamp listened more intently. “Yes, I think you’re right.” Sounds of violence came up the ventilation shaft, bone upon flesh, sharp cries, curses, and then a terrible racket as of an ironmonger’s shop being ravaged by a wild animal, and finally the sharp sound of a revolver shot. Beauchamp lost no more time. “Mr Bodmin, you must inform the Captain at once.”