The China Station (The Earl’s Other Son Series, Book 1)

by Wareham, Andrew

  “Not good, Mr McGurk. Is there hold space that could be converted into an extra magazine?”

  “Only by reducing coal, sir. We could convert a bunker into a magazine, sir, but we would lose a lot of fuel, sir.”

  “No. We shall be steaming rather than sailing, Mr McGurk. We cannot carry less coal – indeed, I will be inclined towards more, if possible.”

  “We could convert part of the sail locker, sir?”

  “Good idea, see what’s possible. What happened with your Court of Inquiry, by the way, Mr McGurk?”

  “All that was expected, sir. The Gunnery Officer was present at the scene, sir, and gave the order to open the breech, sir, and died on the spot. There was no point to fixing the blame on him, though he was at fault. The captain had pushed him, however.”

  “Why was that? Did the Inquiry pursue that aspect of the affair?”

  “No, sir. It was carefully buried, in fact. The background is that the cruiser was short of a gun in its broadsides and was looking inefficient and the captain wanted the gun firing instantly. Admiral Seymour also wanted to see his ships on top line, sir, and had demanded an explanation of Prince William’s captain within a minute of the gun falling silent.”

  Magnus had assumed the case to be something like that.

  “What was the exercise, Mr McGurk?”

  “A simulated attack by torpedo boats, sir, to be stopped by the smaller guns of the fleet. Admiral Seymour is a big gun man, sir, one of those who believes in the battleship above all. He does not think that the torpedo can possibly be a menace, sir. He was not pleased that Prince William might be allowing a torpedo boat into range. Add to that, sir, the exercise was being observed by a Japanese cruiser, and the Admiral did not wish to display inefficiency.”

  Magnus was unsurprised – the risk of losing men to an explosion was less important than that of showing poorly in front of foreigners.

  “Thank you, Mr McGurk. Turning to another question, a matter on which I have no experience to come to my own conclusion, is it your habit to maintain a degree of readiness when in harbours such as this?”

  “Always, sir. Two guns’ crews to be to hand and available to open fire at two minutes notice. Hands to be available to one of the Maxims at all times and a crew to a Nordenfelt always on duty. Rifles and sixty rounds apiece on issue to the sentries – two of them – at the brow.”

  “What of shore leave?”

  “Three-watch the crew, sir. No more than one in three of the hands to be ashore at any time. One third belowdecks, assumed to be sleeping, sir, though, of course they may well be awake and idling – their choice. One third at their duty stations but employed on light work only, at readiness, one might say, sir. The men know why, sir. They know that the Chinks ain’t never quite to be trusted, even where we are welcome, as we are here, sir. This, by the way, sir, is the only port on these shores where Captain Parkes would allow shore leave.”

  “Do you think I should maintain that policy, Mr McGurk?”

  “Bustard ain’t out for more than three weeks at a time, as a rule, sir. The men can get their time ashore in Honkers, sir. This is by way of being an extra, you might say, sir.”

  “Well and good, Mr McGurk. After some three months in the yard, they can hardly claim to be ill-used for shore time. For the while, the policy will remain unchanged. It might be wise to alter it at a later date – I will not do so lightly, however.”

  It seemed likely to Magnus that Mr Whyte would be promoted out of Bustard at any time, and that Roberts and Prosser might be posted, leaving him with McGurk as his sole experienced hand in the wardroom. He might find himself needing McGurk’s goodwill. Consulting him, listening to his opinions, could not hurt - unless he came to the conclusion that his captain was weak and needed to lean on his shoulder.

  A boy sailor knocked at the cabin door.

  “Messenger from onshore, sir.”

  “Inform Mr Whyte, if you please, then bring him in.”

  Whyte appeared, followed by a young Chinese man dressed in the white tunic and wide trousers that seemed to be the normal wear of those Chinese who had a wage and could purchase their clothing from the stores. The cottons had probably been woven in Lancashire, cheaper than a locally grown and tailored product.

  “Beg pardon, sir.” The messenger bowed, European style. “His Excellency requests the pleasure of your company, sir, at an early moment, if that may be to your convenience.”

  Mr Whyte nodded slightly.

  “I shall be glad of the opportunity to meet His Excellency.”

  Magnus raised an eyebrow to Whyte who mouthed ‘now’ to him.

  “Would you wish to escort me to His Excellency?”

  “If you please, sir.”

  “Very good. You must give me a few minutes to dress correctly, sir. Mr Whyte?”

  Whyte accompanied Magnus to his inner cabin where Carter had laid out his best sea-going uniform, not his Number Ones or Dress.

  “Always change, sir, to show respect, but not too much, sir. ‘His Excellency’ wishes to see you during the working day, sir, which means he wants something. It would be impolite to discuss business with you over dinner, in his eyes. He will beg a favour, sir, and probably make some sort of gift.”

  “How sensible is he, Mr Whyte? Would he ask something that is impossible?”

  “No, sir. He will try to keep to something you will be able and willing to do.”

  “What is the depth of his river, by the way?”

  “Twenty feet at least for the eighty miles until it enters a narrow valley which is generally regarded as impassable, sir, for the current being swift and there being rocks as well.”

  “We draw no more than thirteen feet fully loaded. Centurion draws twenty-six feet, does she not?”

  Mr Whyte did not know, had found no need to discover the battleship’s draught.

  “There is forty feet in the main channel in the harbour here, sir, but I believe it becomes shallower quite quickly.”

  “A pity. Four ten-inch guns could be comforting in some situations.”

  “Yes, sir. I have your escort ready, sir.”

  “Very good. Let us proceed. Is it a long walk?”

  “No, sir. There will be sedan chairs at the brow, sir. The escort will march, sir. A quarter of a mile, at most, sir. Revolver and ceremonial sword, sir. Must never go unarmed, sir, for the show of it.”

  Carter strapped the belt to Magnus’ waist and shoulder.

  “Loaded with five rounds, sir. Empty chamber under the hammer, sir. Twelve rounds in the pouch, sir.”

  Whyte nodded his approval.

  “Better safe than sorry, sir.”

  The boatswain and his mates were on deck, made the formal farewell, whistles shrilling as Magnus paced down the gangway, Mr Whyte formally saluting.

  ‘Show and more show. I wonder if it does impress the Chinese?’

  It was strange – Magnus had seen pictures and photographs of the Chinese style of architecture, but it seemed outlandish to actually pass the buildings with the upturned eaves and latticework that he had always known to be typical. It was all as it should be, but not in real life – it was a pantomime come into existence about him. The noise was overpowering, and the smells took some getting used to – it appeared that the whole of Chinese life took place in the street, which was crammed with people, the bulk of whom stared at him with equal incredulity. It was peculiar, he mused, seeing foreigners who looked at home in their surroundings; he wondered whether this Governor of Hanshan had ever considered rebuilding the town in proper fashion – they would be far more comfortable in proper English houses.

  The sedan chair turned into a large courtyard, passing armed sentries, carrying modern rifles, he noticed; German Mausers, at a glance. He wondered whether they could actually fire the guns. The messenger, who he imagined had walked behind, appeared and invited him to leave the chair and enter the residence.

  The building was old, within reason maintained and polished,
Magnus thought. Solidly built in good stone, it could probably be held against a rioting mob, was to a great extent a fortification rather than a simple residence. White painted walls and ceilings decorated in what would be recognised in London as Chinese fashion – gold and scarlet lions’ heads and various stylised, heraldic animals. It was much as he had expected – photographers had been busy in China for twenty years and the press had published many a plate.

  “On entering, captain, sir, you should bow your head, but not far and His Excellency will stand and return the compliment. There will be a chair at a table, sir, and he will join you there, both to sit at the same time.”

  Magnus was not at sure that he approved of the assumption of equality – a mere Chink had no business presuming to be on a par with a British gentleman, a naval officer especially so.

  That could be dealt with on another occasion, however, when he knew more of what was what on the Coast.

  The man who greeted him was dressed in conventional Chinese robes, as far as Magnus could tell. He looked exactly as a mandarin should. He was older than Magnus, twice his age, well into his fifties, probably. Magnus gave his bow, inclining his head gravely. The Chinese gentleman stood – he had been sat on an ornate chair, almost a throne, raised two steps on a dais; he bowed to match Magnus and then stepped down and sat at the head of large table, Magnus taking the seat pulled out for him at the same moment. The interpreter said something in which Magnus thought he heard his own name.

  “Sir, His Excellency asks if you are a Lord or are the son of an English lord.”

  That was surprisingly perceptive, Magnus thought.

  “I am in fact the second son of a Scottish peer, the Earl of Calvine. I am a naval officer, sir.”

  “If your honourable brother dies, his son is to become Earl?”

  “Eventually, but my brother has yet to take a wife.”

  They understood that Magnus remained as the heir while his brother failed to provide a son. It gave Magnus an extra degree of importance, inasmuch that an Earl, which he might eventually become, was a figure of some importance in England. The interpreter, himself a younger, but insignificant, son of the warlord, had received some education in England, had made himself aware of the nature of power there.

  “Sir, Lord Ping Wu wonders whether you are a new captain, or one who is here while Captain Parkes is ill.”

  “Captain Parkes is thought to be dying, sir. He will not be seen again.”

  There was a brief exchange in Mandarin, the new situation established.

  “My father, sir, wishes to offer the best wishes to you and trusts you may be as fine a gentleman as Captain Parkes, and more fortunate in your health, sir.”

  “Please thank the esteemed gentleman for his good wishes.”

  “There is, honourable sir, a certain difficulty recently arisen on our river. A swarm of bandits who have come down from the hills to the south, driven to run away by the French, one understands, sir.”

  Magnus knew that there had been a war between the French in Indo-China and the Qing, and that the French, overall winners, had experienced some defeats and substantial casualties over the period of fighting. ‘Bandits driven out by the French’ might easily be the remains of Qing armies, in retreat but not wholly demoralised.

  “These ‘bandits’, sir. Are they passing through your domain or have they attempted to make a conquest?”

  “They have attacked one town and seem to intend to remain there. They are a threat to the remainder of the domain, sir.”

  “It seems likely that action must be taken against them, sir. I assume your army is marching against them, sir?”

  “The bandits have stolen guns, sir, and are able to fight the army with them.”

  Magnus now knew what Bustard’s role was to be.

  “Bandits with artillery are a menace to good order, sir, and must be put down. I believe that it might be possible to sail my ship to discover them and take proper action.”

  Magnus had said what they wanted to hear. Brief discussion established that Bustard should remain tied up for another two days while messages were sent to the warlord’s army and arrangements were made for an attack as soon as the field-guns had been destroyed. Magnus was invited to dinner on the following evening and returned to the ship. There had been no present; he wondered why – possibly he had been seen as more important, deserving of something finer than originally planned.

  “Mr Whyte, you said that there is a Jardine, Matheson warehouse here.”

  “Yes, sir. The large building perhaps two cables distant along the wharf, sir.”

  There was a brick-built warehouse, overtly European, about a quarter of a mile distant.

  “Will there be British men present?”

  “Always, sir.”

  “Then arrange for a note to be taken to them, if you please.”

  Magnus sat down at his desk, wrote a brief and formal letter to the manager and handed it to Mr Whyte, to be sent by the hand of Midshipman Hawkes, escorted by two armed sailors.

  The manager returned with Midshipman Hawkes, somewhat to Magnus’ surprise.

  “Come in, sir. You are very welcome aboard Bustard.”

  The manager was much the same age as Magnus, spoke with an exaggerated public-school drawl.

  “Foulkes, old boy. Manager for the province, for my sins.”

  “Campbell, Captain of Bustard, Mr Foulkes. I did not expect you to come in person, wanted to know if you could tell me anything of these bandits inland.”

  “Damned nuisance, old chap! Disrupting trade, don’t you know! Next thing you know they’ll be comin’ down the jolly river and taking Hanshan itself. Got themselves a battery of guns from somewhere, Krupp, so I hear, and gunners who know what they’re doin’. Got suspicions about that, you know, dear fellow. Mercenaries, so-called. Prussians, that’s what I think! Take Hanshan, put their own chap into the local administrative office, then you’ll find a German firm taking our place and the whole show will be salutin’ Berlin.”

  It was possible that the whole business was no more than disguised German aggression, but Magnus was unwilling to take Foulkes’ assertions at face-value. For that matter, he was not prepared to take Foulkes at his own valuation – he did not trust that accent, thought there was a strong chance that Foulkes had risen in class and background as he had progressed east. It would be difficult to investigate Foulkes’ background from China, even more so if ‘Foulkes’ transpired not to be the name he had been born with.

  “Well, Mr Foulkes, I think we must do all we can to keep the peace. We shall sail in about thirty-six hours. Ping Wu wishes to inform his own people of our presence and to make sure that they will be able to coordinate their attack with ours. Will you wish to join us on Bustard?”

  Foulkes went to great lengths to explain just how much he wished to do so, but he could not leave his place of duty – the Hong could not look kindly on him if he did.

  “Hong, sir?”

  “Oh, it’s what we China hands call the firm, you know, Lord Magnus.”

  “I see. I must remember that, Mr Foulkes.”

  Magnus was surprised by the warlord’s hospitality when he dined with him. The company was small and exclusively male, at first, drinking in moderation and eating a series of tasty, and Magnus suspected Westernised, dishes, a spoon made available to him, for being unused as yet to Chinese ways. He wondered if his inability to use chopsticks made him seem barbarian, uncultured to the Chinese; bad luck if it did, he might not possess their elegance, but he had much bigger guns.

  They took a break from eating – Magnus thought it might be no more than an interval between courses, as it were – and a troupe of acrobats and dancers, male and female, performed for their entertainment. It was an impressive performance, but Magnus had seen similar artistes around the Mediterranean, even if less superbly athletic. He joined in the applause. Music followed, not unpleasant, but he was not a culture-hound, he believed, and had spent very little of his life l
istening to classical orchestras.

  The interpreter informed him that the music was newly composed by a Chinese gentleman who had spent some years in Vienna and had attempted, successfully many thought, to bring the best of Western and Chinese traditions together. Magnus was much impressed, or so he said; he was far more entertained by the young ladies who followed with a dance that was vigorous and demanded scanty clothing.

  They ate more and drank a little and then Magnus was led away to a private room at the rear where some of the young ladies gave him another display of dancing, which ended with all parties wholly unclothed and very active for a few hours. Magnus reflected later that dinner parties in Mayfair often ended in much the same way, but perhaps less overtly so.

  A day and a half at the wharf permitted all of the men to take a few hours ashore, and be thoroughly amused. Presumably the warlord thought they would fight the better next day as a result.

  The interpreter arrived aboard in early evening, reported that all was well and that it would be much appreciated if Bustard was to sail as arranged at first light.

  “It is thought, Captain Lord Campbell, that your ship might wish to come to its anchor some few miles distant from the bandits, and remain out of their sight until next morning, for you will not arrive until late afternoon. To up anchor, as it is said, perhaps thirty minutes before dawn, will allow you to arrive out of night’s Stygian gloom, as my revered teacher often said, and make your bombardment with great surprise.”

  “An excellent proposal, sir. I shall have great pleasure in complying with your suggestion. Do you know exactly where the guns will be?”

  “The bandits are moving slowly down the river, sir. They are to take the villages, one by one, and at each they place the guns under guard, so they may not be attacked by brave men in the night, in a place inside the village – a market square, as it would be called in England. Because the villages trade on the river, their markets are always on the very banks of the stream, sir.”