To distract myself, I stared out the carriage window, watching the London scenery go by as though I were watching a magic lantern show. I’d never seen so many people in one place in my life, and they all appeared to be working earnestly. Sellers crammed the street’s gutters hawking their wares of reach-me-down clothes, pots and pans, chairs, bouquets of violets, newspapers, song sheets, and penny dreadfuls. Costermongers pushed barrows of fruit and vegetables past knife grinders treading their whetstones with their hobnailed boots. A boy shouted out goods available in his master’s cart: “onions, potatoes, lettuce, and cress!”
The noise from the wheels of the cabs and carriages and people talking created a din that was so loud I could barely hear myself breathe. It was exciting and new and I wanted to press it all into my memory lest I forget. I would never have cause to return here, after all.
As we drew near the docks, a line of wagons and cabs blocked the entrance, and the hansom cab Papa hired couldn’t make its way through the traffic. We alighted in the street.
“It’s the tea races causin’ all this commotion,” the cabdriver explained. He set his whip in its socket and took the coin Papa handed him. “The clippers from China were sighted in the Channel early this morning, and the race is on. The people are watching to see who docks first.”
The driver gestured to several men standing on the side of the road who were holding slates and marking numbers on them in chalk. “People are wagering on the ships.” He cast a longing look at the boards. “I’ve a mind to put a shilling down on the Osprey meself. Now that’s a fast ship.”
“The Osprey is in?” Papa asked.
“Do you know the ship?” I asked him.
He nodded. “I know the captain well. He won’t stay at the docks for long. I’m sure he plans to return to China as soon as the ship is ready to go. All the shipping companies will be after the Osprey. The captain has never lost a cargo, and he brings the freight in on schedule. Not many captains can lay that claim. And if he wins this race today, he can be guaranteed an outbound cargo. He’ll be returning to Foochow to collect more tea, so I may be able to obtain passage on the ship.” Papa appeared relieved by the news of the ship, and indeed I was gladsome that he could be traveling with peers who might be able to calm him should he grow anxious.
“That’s me decided, then,” the driver said. “I’ll make a wager on the Osprey.” He waved his arm at the bookmakers, and a small boy scuttled over to collect the driver’s wager.
We left the driver to his business and made our way through the crowd. Instead of lingering at the back, Papa made his way to the front. I held on to his arm, trying hard not to tread on anyone’s toes as he pushed through the crowds and to the riverbank. When we reached the dock, a loud cheer rose from the crowd that made my ears ring.
“There they are, Elodie,” Papa said, pointing upriver. “The tea clippers.”
I was glad of my height because I could see over the people leaning against the railing in front of me. And oh, what a majestic sight it was. I had never seen the like. Chubby paddlewheel tugboats towed two tall ships, their sails furled, masts raking the cloudless blue skies, through the river’s brown water. Men on the ships’ decks rushed to and fro, attending to their duties. The ship the cabbie mentioned, the Osprey, was closest to our side of the river and was in the lead by two ships’ length.
The Osprey’s tugboat chugged ever nearer until finally it reached the entrance to the docks. As the wheel churned through the river, water plumed over the paddles. Black smoke curled away from the tug’s steam pipes, and when the captain inside his little wheelhouse pulled a chain, a high-pitched whistle peeled out.
The tug swept by, and the Osprey, tethered to it on a long length of rope, was so close I could almost reach out and touch her figurehead’s cheek. And what a beautiful figurehead she was—a mermaid holding a seabird in her upturned palm as though offering it to the waves purling around the ship’s graceful bow. The clipper rose and fell through the river, splashing water over the spectators. I felt the droplets fall, cool against my cheeks. I did not wipe them away.
A young dark-haired man appeared on the Osprey’s deck, a square crate stamped with bright red Chinese lettering balanced on his shoulder. A little black-and-white dog, no bigger than a cat, ran around him, barking. The sleeves of the young man’s checked shirt were rolled to his elbow, and the collar was open, the neck handkerchief knotted loosely around his neck. He made his way toward the front of the ship, then stopped at the railing and braced one foot against it.
The young man’s expression was intent, but a broad smile crossed his face, as though the race was nothing but a lark-about. Another sailor nearby called out to him, and the young man lifted his free hand and laughed. The little dog leapt into the air as its master spoke, its tiny folded ears and pointed snout disappearing and reappearing over the rail as it jumped.
“What is that sailor doing?” I asked Papa, nearly breathless with the thrill of the race. “What is that he’s holding?”
“It’s a tea crate. As soon as the dock is close enough, he’ll throw it over the ship’s gunwales. The other sailor stands ready as well.” He pointed to the second ship, which had now reached the entrance to the dock, where a man stood holding a similar crate. “The first crate that lands on the dock marks the winner. These ships have been racing for three months. They’ll have left the Chinese port together. It’s quite the battle, and there’s much prestige for the winning ship. Its captain will be hired before any other. Sometimes ships have to wait for weeks in China before they find a tea cargo. But not a fast ship, not a winning ship. They are snapped up quickly.” Papa smiled. “Are you enjoying the sight?”
“It’s beautiful! I’ve never seen the like of it.”
“Tall ships are indeed a grand sight.” He looked at me curiously, as though seeing me for the first time. “But do you not find the wind and sea smell and bustling crowd an annoyance?”
“No,” I replied. “I find it exhilarating.”
“Well, well, well,” he said, more to himself than to me. “Upon my soul.”
The second ship’s tugboat put on a burst of speed, and the vessel began to close the gap, but it wasn’t enough. Several people, who had most likely placed their wagers on the other ship and were already anticipating the Osprey’s win, began to make their way out of the dockyards.
The man standing in front of me tore up a ticket and pitched the pieces into the water. His friend clapped him on the shoulder. “I warned you not to wager against the Osprey,” he said gleefully. The man grumbled something in response, his face a scowl. “Come on, then,” his friend replied. “Let’s drown your sorrows at the alehouse.”
The two men departed, and I stepped into their place. I leaned over the iron balustrade, over the river as far as I dared. I pushed my bonnet back, letting it dangle by its ribbons around my neck, as I used to do when I was a little girl. The wind whipped my hair, pulling strands of it from my bun. I climbed the bottom of the railing and leaned out even farther, gripping the top railing with my hands and imagining I was on the deck of the clipper. I could almost feel the sway of the ship’s deck under my feet, the crate on my own shoulder, the wooden boards rough against my hand, the edge biting into my shoulder. I swore I could smell the woodsy scent of the tea over the brackish odor of the river.
The Osprey reached the docks, and I saw the young man quite clearly. I noticed the sweat streaking down his face, despite the chill of the day, and his eyes snapping with excitement. I couldn’t help but smile. He looked in my direction, and I imagined he saw me. Imagined the nod that followed was for me. His grin grew even wider, and then with a shout and a heave of his arms, he tossed the crate overboard. It crashed onto the dock, and the sides split open, pouring its contents out. A breeze swirled over the curled tea leaves, picking them up and tossing them like confetti over the crowd. A boy about ten years old, dressed in knicke
rbockers and a flat cap, dashed forward and scooped a pile of the leaves into a hessian sack and ran into the trading house. The tugboat continued on, pulling the Osprey toward the docking yards.
Moments later a bell rang out and the boy reappeared.
“The Osprey wins!” he shouted.
The crowd erupted into cheers. The sailors on the Osprey gathered around the young man, clapping him on the shoulders.
“Come along, Elodie,” Papa said. “Let us find a coffeehouse. We’ll come back once the crowd has dispersed.” Reluctantly I left the railing and followed Papa down the docks. I glanced at the ship one last time, and I saw the young man had left his celebrating comrades and moved to the back of the ship. He was looking toward the spot where I stood.
PAPA AND I WERE GONE ONLY AN HOUR AT THE COFFEEHOUSE, BUT AT the East India Docks the stevedores had sprung into action. When we arrived, towering stacks of tea, ten crates high, stood on the quayside while men barrowed them into the warehouse with handcarts. Crates were winched out of the Osprey with ropes and swung over the docks, replacing the boxes on the stack as fast as the stevedores could barrow them off.
“They are already unloading?” I asked Papa.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Buyers have been waiting since the ships left China. The porcelain packed alongside the tea is worth a fair bit, too. As soon as the ship gets unloaded and reloaded with wool and cotton to sell in China, they will be off again. No rest for them, I fear.”
We went into the Merchant Navy office at the side of the warehouse, and while I remained in the vestibule Papa went off to find a clerk and make his enquiries for passage aboard a clipper. I waited in the windowless room for a quarter of an hour, but the lure of the action on the docks was too much for me to resist, and so I stepped outside to watch the ships unload, sheltering from the sun under the eaves of the building. The Merchant Navy office was at the end of the quay, and the action unfolded in front of me as though I were watching a Christmas pantomime. The men shouted in various accents, some regional to England and some foreign. It seemed that several countries had converged on this one dock with the same purpose.
I thought about the many hands that had gone into transporting that tea, and the hands that had held the leaves that filled my teapot each day at home. My thoughts drifted to the mountains of China, where the tea grew high up in the clouds. Who were the people who set out that season to pick the tea? Did they wonder about the person who would drink the cup of tea made from the handful of leaves they plucked that morning? I wondered what the air smelled of in that mysterious world, and if the flavor of the tea carried the land’s very essence. I could not fathom a place where tea and orchids grew together. What a mystical place it must be. I didn’t think I would look at tea the same way again.
A commotion beyond the warehouse drew me out of my reverie. Angry voices shouted, and footsteps pounded the boards of the wharf.
Sprinting down the dock was the little black-and-white dog I’d seen on the Osprey earlier, a chicken leg clenched in its dainty mouth. The dog was running so fast that its front legs stretched straight out. Every few strides the dog bounded through the air, as though attempting to fly. A man in pursuit, a napkin tied around his neck, most likely the erstwhile owner of the chicken leg, brandished his fists.
“Stop, you little thief!” he shouted.
Hard on his heels was the young man on the Osprey who had tossed the tea crate onto the dock. He was yelling, too, but it wasn’t in English.
The little dog dodged around the men unloading tea. It dashed in front of a stevedore pushing a cart piled high with tea crates. Startled, the stevedore jerked the handles of his barrow, tipping it sideways and dumping the contents onto the quay. Another stevedore, carrying smaller boxes, tripped over one of the fallen crates and crashed to the ground, his booted feet flying up in the air. Another skidded to a halt just in time before he tripped over the prone stevedore. The dog dashed behind one of the towers of tea crates and, wisely, did not reappear.
The man pursuing the dog stopped and glanced around. The stevedore who had lost his cargo rumbled the dog’s whereabouts, gesturing angrily at the tower.
The man jerked his head toward the dog’s hiding place. “I have you now, you whelp!” He lunged behind the tower, and the dog left its hiding place, popping out right in front of me. But there was no more dock left, and the dog had nowhere to escape to. It would have to jump into the water or turn back right into the path of the angry man. The dog skidded to a halt, the tiny claws digging into the wooden boards and a whine leaving its throat. The little animal turned its head and looked at me. Its eyes were the sweetest chocolate brown color. It lifted one ear, those brown eyes pleading.
I took a step forward, picked up my skirt, and dropped it over the dog.
ELEVEN
The man appeared from behind the crates, staring around him, his face red with rage. He was very short and portly, but muscles bulged beneath the sleeves of his canvas shirt. I imagined that once he’d gotten hold of a person—or a little dog—he’d never let go.
“Where is that wee beast?” he shouted. “Did ye see it?”
I shook my head. “I saw nothing. Perhaps it’s gone into the warehouse.”
He glared. “I saw it come this way.”
I shrugged. “I’m very sorry. I . . . I didn’t see a dog come this way.”
Safely underneath my cage crinoline, the dog dropped the chicken leg on my boot and sniffed my ankle. I could feel the wet of its nose seeping through my cotton stocking. Its whiskers tickled, and I bit my lip to keep from laughing. Delighted with its new hiding place, the little dog began to dart around the perimeter.
The young sailor stepped out from behind the crates, and his face blanched when he saw the end of the dock. When he glanced at me, I flicked my fingers toward my skirt, and the young man’s eyes widened, comprehending the dog’s hiding place.
“That beast of your’n has taken my dinner!” The sailor rounded on the young man. He poked him in the chest with a stubby finger, the nail thick with grime. “What are you going to do about it?”
The young man looked bewildered and replied to the sailor with a slew of words, shaking his head and holding his hands up. The language had a melodic tone, rather like a song than a sentence.
The sailor narrowed his eyes. “Hey? What’s that yer saying, eh?”
“I don’t believe he speaks English,” I said to the sailor. “I don’t think he understands you.” Underneath my skirt, the dog ceased its lark-about and sat down on my foot, leaning against my leg.
“How’s about I make him understand me?” The sailor cracked his hairy knuckles and then grabbed a handful of the young man’s shirt. “How about that?”
“There’s no call for that!” I said. “Let him go!”
The young man shouted something in his native tongue again, and the dog growled, its throat rumbling against my leg.
The door to the Merchant Navy office swung open, and Papa stepped out. He put his hat on and looked around, his eyes searching. I waved to catch his attention. “There’s my father. He speaks several languages, so perhaps he knows what the sailor is saying.” I dearly hoped he knew the young man’s particular language.
“There’s been a bit of a disturbance,” I said to Papa after he’d made his way over. “It seems a little dog has stolen this man’s dinner, and he is claiming this other man as the owner.”
“Where is the dog in question?” Papa asked, looking around.
“No one seems to know where it went,” I said.
“The bloke is speaking gibberish,” the sailor said, releasing the young man’s shirt. “A load of nonsense.”
The young man flew forth with another string of words.
Papa listened, nodding, and then he turned to the sailor. “I believe that gibberish, as you say, is Russian. Allow me to translate.” Papa said something t
o the young man who then replied. “He says he has no idea who owns the dog,” Papa translated.
The sailor scowled. “Oh, is that right? Why was he hollering at the dog and running after it, then, heh?”
Papa bowed politely. “I will ask him.” The two spoke again and Papa replied, “He says he was shouting at the dog because he took some food from him, too.” The young man said something else to Papa. “He says if he finds the dog, he’ll wring its neck.”
The sailor poked the young man in the chest again. “Well, see that you do!”
Papa put his hand in his pocket and drew out a shilling. “May I be so bold as to offer to replace your dinner? Perhaps that will settle the matter.”
The sailor squinted at the coin and then snatched it out of Papa’s fingers. “That settles the matter for now, but I’ll be on the lookout for that scamp. If I see it around here, I’ll stuff it in a sack and drown it. Mark my words.” Glaring at the young man once more, the sailor left.
The young man blew out his breath and grinned. He held out his hand to my father. “Spasibo. Many thanks to you, sir,” he said in perfect English, marked with a slight accent.
Papa shook his hand. “Hello, Alex. Good to see you again. I’m happy to be of service to you.”
“That was a sailor on the ship we raced. He’s very angry at losing. No bonus for them. That chicken leg was probably the first bite of meat he’s enjoyed since he left Foochow. She’s naughty, Kukla; she should not be poking around the public houses like a starved waif. I didn’t know she’d left the ship until I saw her and that oaf thundering past while I was helping to unload the ship.”
“Where is the little dog in question?” Papa asked.
“Well, it seems your daughter came to her rescue,” Alex replied. “And I’m quite glad she did.”
The Forbidden Orchid Page 10
