A Place of Birds

by Jane Jackson

  A PLACE OF BIRDS

  Jane Jackson

  Nineteen-year-old Susanna Elliot rebels against her strict Quaker background, which alienates her from her family and community. Rejected by the doctor she admires, and refused permission to take her dead brother's place in the family business, she flees to join her two cousins on their mission to China. All three leave Falmouth for Shanghai aboard a schooner owned by Lowell Hawke.

  Hawke’s daring exploits have made him a legend along the China coast and Susanna finds herself involved in terrible danger – and love...

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter One

  ‘No!’ Samuel Elliot quivered with agitation. ‘What you ask is impossible.’

  ‘But, Father, I’m perfectly capable –’

  ‘Did you not hear me?’ He shook his head in despair. ‘You would try the patience of a saint.’ Susanna watched him reclaim control over both his expression and emotions. ‘I don’t doubt your ability,’ he said with the careful fairness she admired and hated in equal measure. ‘But I cannot permit admiration for your achievements to influence my decision.’

  ‘Why not? How can you praise my intelligence and abilities yet refuse to let me use them?’

  ‘Susanna, my position as an Elder demands every member of my family observes the same high standards of correct behaviour I set myself. Your reluctance to conform causes me great pain.’

  She felt her face flame. ‘I’m sorry.’ Guilt battled with resentment. ‘But please, may I not –?’

  ‘No. Assisting at a time of crisis is one thing. What you are asking is quite another. And out of the question.’ His stern features softened. ‘I am sure with thought and prayer you will find a more appropriate use for your talents among the many charities we support. Women have no place in business or politics. Both are worlds for which they are completely unsuited.’ He picked up his newspaper, signalling the matter closed.

  Her eyes brimming with tears of disappointment and frustration she fled to the sanctuary of her room.

  ‘Captain Willis must have gone mad, that’s all I can say,’ the seaman in the corner bed shouted at his hard-of-hearing neighbour. ‘No good will come of it, you wait and see.’

  Startled out of her introspection Susanna thrust aside the memories and glanced quickly over her shoulder.

  ‘Don’t take no notice, miss,’ gasped the sailor at whose bedside she sat. The congestion in his lungs made each breath a struggle but his exhausted face was creased in a grin. ‘He believes giving a ship the wrong name will bring her bad luck.’

  A stray curl fell across her forehead. She tucked it back out of sight beneath her close-fitting white bonnet and indicated the almost-full page resting on her writing case.

  ‘Shall I give them your love?’

  He nodded, wheezing. Susanna finished writing and turned the page towards him so he could sign it. But when he made no move to take the pen she understood at once. ‘If you’re not feeling up to it …’

  The sailor nodded quickly. ‘You sign it and put my name underneath.’

  Her visits twice a week to the Seamen’s Home and Infirmary had started back in the Spring after her parents had insisted she accompany them to a Friends’ Charity Committee meeting.

  One of the speakers had been Dr Edward Arundell. Supposedly in his early thirties, his springy thatch of rust-coloured hair and spattering of freckles made him look much younger. But his eyes swiftly shattered the illusion of boyishness.

  His remarks about seamen whose families suffered keenly from lack of contact with them had persuaded her to make the Infirmary the focus of her charity work.

  Hunger for knowledge and a series of excellent tutors meant she was, at nineteen, far better educated than most girls of her age and background. Her language skills enabled many of the foreign sailors to send word to their families and enjoy some conversation in their own tongue.

  The seamen treated her with touching respect. But despite confiding intimate details about their lives and families, most hated admitting they could not write even their name. Her innate sensitivity enabled them to save face.

  ‘I just want you to know, miss,’ the sailor wheezed shyly, ‘seeing you do make my day. There isn’t many would bother with the likes of us. Especially not girls as pretty as you

  Astonished, Susanna looked up. Pretty? Her? At every family gathering she attracted disapproval. ‘No-one else in the family has green eyes.’ ‘Something should be done about that hair; it’s far too thick and curly.’ ‘A mouth like that denotes a sensual temperament. She’ll need a firm hand.’

  She hadn’t chosen her looks. She didn’t want to be different. So she tried hard to be as meek and decorous as her plain brown dress which had neither crinoline nor bustle to give it style and not a single ribbon or piece of lace as trimming.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Roberts. I’m glad my visits help.’

  ‘Oh they do, miss.’ he stifled another cough.

  Printing the sailor’s name beneath her own signature Susanna opened her writing and took out an envelope, angling herself to make the most of the wintry light.

  There were two windows in this, the Infirmary’s main ward, but no curtains to gather dust. A gas pipe circled the room just below the high ceiling with five thin feeder pipes running down the white-painted walls to glass-bowled lamps, one above each of the four beds and one just inside the door. A coal fire glowed in the black iron grate, brightening the gloomy November afternoon.

  A sudden shout came from outside the ward, a man’s voice harsh with pain and fear.

  ‘Poor bastard,’ Roberts shook his head. ‘’Scuse me, miss. Brung in last night he was, raving with fever.’

  Another cry echoed through the ward, falling away to a desperate babble.

  ‘Off again, is he?’ the seaman in the corner bed called out. ‘I looked in this morning when I went for a p – when I had a wash. He hasn’t got long.’

  ‘He’s Portuguese,’ Susanna murmured.

  Mr Roberts’ shaggy eyebrows shot up. ‘How do you know that, then?’

  ‘My father is a cargo broker. He’s also principal shareholder in a number of schooners and steamships that make regular trips to Portugal. I recognise the language. I can speak it a little.’

  Roberts’ astonishment became a frown of warning. ‘Best keep your distance. You being a lady and all.’

  ‘He’s right,’ the other seaman added. ‘A lot of these foreigners –’ He shook his head. ‘Come from the gutter they do. The only women they know is whores, begging your pardon, miss. Better leave him to the doctor.’

  ‘Whassamatter?’ his deaf neighbour peered at each of them. ‘What’s going on? Tea coming, is it?’

  ‘Not
yet,’ the seaman yelled. ‘Have a nap. I’ll wake you when it’s time.’

  The Portuguese shouted again. The desperation in his voice worried Susanna. Surely something could be done to help him?

  ‘Think you’ll catch the post, miss?’ Mr Roberts clamped his lips tightly as his chest heaved.

  Realising he needed to clear his lungs and was trying to spare her the unpleasantness, Susanna stood up and replaced the hard wooden chair against the wall.

  ‘I’ll do my best. I hope you feel better tomorrow.’ Nodding to the other men she picked up her writing case and the letter and left the ward. Behind her Mr Roberts released a choking bubbling cough. As she opened the dispensary door to fetch her cloak another heart-rending cry came from the small side-room.

  She hesitated. Albert, the Infirmary’s odd-job man, was busy outside. Lewis, who helped in the dispensary and acted as Edward’s assistant during operations, had already gone.

  Where was Edward? It was totally unlike him to ignore a patient’s suffering. Among seamen Doctor Edward Arundell was spoken of with something approaching reverence for his insight, patience and kindness. Which made it all the more strange that with her he could be so blindly insensitive. She must be far better at hiding her feelings than she’d thought.

  Her conscience pricked. She hadn’t known Edward’s wife but like everyone else she had been shocked by the tragedy. Katharine’s death had been so sudden, so unexpected. She had borne her other two children without any problem.

  Edward’s response to the loss of his wife and baby had been to bury himself in his work. And the sailors’ gratitude for his care and attention ensured his name was known far beyond the port of Falmouth. She knew he valued her visits to the Infirmary. ‘The men regard you as a treasure,’ he had told her, smiling.

  What about you? She had longed to ask. What am I to you? Surely one day soon he would see beyond her Quaker drab to the woman beneath?

  She looked up and down the passage in an agony of indecision. The sailors had warned her to stay clear. But she couldn’t simply ignore the man’s anguished cries. She would reassure him that he hadn’t been forgotten then go and find Edward. As she opened the side ward door a fetid stench made her recoil.

  The man in the bed moved restlessly. His face was gaunt and swarthy with several days’ beard. His hair had come out in patches leaving uneven clumps and thin dark strands. Bloodshot eyes, sunk deep in their sockets, had a febrile glitter and his prominent cheekbones were flushed with hectic colour. A yellow gummy substance had gathered at the corners of his cracked lips. He moaned, his face contorting, still unaware of her presence.

  Breathing as lightly as she could, she crossed to the bed. He looked on the brink of death. Christian charity demanded that any man, no matter what his background, was entitled to a few words of comfort.

  ‘Teresa?’ he rasped with glimmering hope.

  ‘No.’ She spoke haltingly in his language. ‘Please try to rest. I’ll find the doctor.’

  ‘Teresa.’ He grimaced. His skin was mottled with reddish brown spots. One hand shot out and fastened around her wrist. He started to babble, pulling her closer. The gust of putrid breath made her gag.

  She tried to wrench her arm loose but his grip was maniacally strong. Her writing case fell to the floor and fright arrowed through her. ‘Please, let go. I can’t understand you. You are talking too fast.’

  Her words were drowned by his frenzied pleas. Struggling in earnest now she tore at his fingers. ‘Stop it. Let go!’

  The Portuguese twisted her wrist over and pressed into her hand a small disc about two inches across. Its carved surface was so dirty the colour was impossible to determine. Heaving himself up off the pillow he tried to drag her towards him. She jerked frantically backwards.

  ‘Eu amo-te, Teresa. I love you.’ He closed his hand over hers, pressing the edges of the disc against her fingers. ‘This cost me everything – aaaagh!’ His lips drew back in a snarl of pain and his eyelids flickered closed.

  Tearing herself free she snatched up the letter and her writing case from the floor and ran out.

  In the dispensary she leaned against the bench gulping for air. Suddenly she began to shiver. Her breath caught in a sob and hot tears slid down her cheeks. She raised her hand to wipe her eyes. But where he had held her she could smell the sickly rotting odour.

  A bitter taste rose in her throat and she lurched across to the stone sink beneath the window. Reaching out to turn on the single tap she realised she was still clutching the disc. Dropping it in the sink she seized the soap and scrubbed her hands, working up a thick creamy lather. The men in the ward had warned her. She had no one to blame but herself. But that smell …

  Blinking away tears she rinsed off the suds then bent forward and cupped the icy water over her burning face. It took her breath away but she felt better. As she dried herself her gaze fell on the disc. She turned on the tap once more and using plenty of soap gave it a thorough wash. Her hands ached from the cold water but she had stopped trembling.

  The medallion was pink jade carved with a Chinese motif. Her Uncle George had been in China during the first Opium War. He had described steep mountains and flat plains, wide rivers and terraced fields, pirate-infested waters and typhoons. A land where people wore red to celebrate birth and marriage, and white to mourn their dead. Where black was the only acceptable colour for hair and eyes. ‘They’d call you a devil,’ he’d said, laughing. Then he had told her about the Honourable East India Company. ‘A British trading venture begun in 1600, which acquired a prestige unequalled since the days of the Phoenicians.’ He told her how it had spread its operations from India to China. And how, after the company lost its monopoly in 1833, free traders scrambled to set up new trading houses. ‘Jardine Matheson, Dent, Beale, Hawke: adventurers who cared nothing for regulations or the legality of what they were trading. They bribed the mandarins. Any Custom-house officials foolish enough to interfere were simply brushed aside.’

  Susanna had listened, wide-eyed, to his tales. But when she asked him about the war, and about the opium that caused it, his face had darkened. ‘I’ll not speak of that,’ he’d said. ‘What’s past is done and best forgotten. You let it be, understand?’

  After he died she had continued to scour the newspapers, eager to learn more about this strange land. But her parents disapproved of her interest in a country still ignorant of Christianity. So she had tried to concentrate on things they did approve of. But their world was so narrow, so limited, she felt as if she were suffocating.

  Susanna hung the towel on its hook. The dispensary had its own peculiar smell – a mixture of herbs, camphor, gas and carbolic – familiar, comforting, and safe. Suddenly all the bottles rattled as the outside door crashed open. With a violent start she thrust the Chinese medallion into the pocket of her dress and ran out.

  Two men wearing the thick trousers, boots and stained canvas smocks of fishermen staggered up the passage carrying a makeshift stretcher on which a white-faced boy lay keening in agony. Behind them, his tall, slightly stooping figure instantly recognisable, came Edward. Her heart gave a sharp kick.

  The gold pin in his maroon silk cravat and the fine cloth and immaculate cut of his frock coat proclaimed him a man of wealth. But slimy mud smeared his trousers and caked shoes normally polished to a mirror shine. As the men drew level, their weathered faces strained with effort and anxiety, the one at the back shot her an anguished glance.

  ‘’Tis my boy, Colin. The shoring collapsed and ‘is leg was trapped under the boat.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Treneer, I’m so sorry.’ As they trudged past she caught a poignant glimpse of a dirty bare foot no bigger than her own. The lower part of one trouser leg was ripped and through the muddy blood-soaked cloth she caught the gleam of jagged white bone. This new horror was too much. Her head swam and she pressed her fingers to her mouth.

  ‘First door on the right,’ Edward called. ‘Just put the stretcher on the table. Don’t try to move hi
m.’ He paused beside Susanna. ‘Is Lewis still here?’

  Swallowing hard she shook her head. ‘He left while I was on the ward.’

  ‘What about Albert?’

  ‘He’s still outside unblocking that drain.’

  ‘Then it’ll have to be you. Come.’ He started down the passage to where the men were carefully manoeuvring the stretcher in through the doorway.

  ‘M – me?’ She gasped, gripping the doorjamb. He couldn’t expect her to –

  Edward turned back. ‘Yes, you. I need an assistant.’

  She gaped at him. ‘But I’m not – I can’t –’

  ‘I can’t do this alone. And if I don’t act soon the boy will die.’ His blunt summary of the situation made her cringe. ‘Surely you don’t want that on your conscience?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she retorted appalled. ‘But –’

  ‘No buts,’ he interrupted. ‘Please. We haven’t time. When you first started your visits you told me it was because you wanted to do something really useful. Well, this is your chance. I don’t know if I can save the boy’s leg. I’ll do my best. But I need your help. Do you understand?’

  Moistening parched lips and deliberately shutting out the clamour of parental warnings she nodded.

  Flashing her one of his rare smiles he strode down the corridor. She followed, her thoughts flying in all directions like sparks from a firework.

  ‘We had the boat up on the foreshore,’ George Treneer was saying. ‘It was only minor repairs, see?’ Susanna tried desperately to blank out the boy’s screams as he was transferred from the makeshift stretcher to the operating table. The room smelled of blood, fish, and sewage-tainted mud.

  ‘I asked’n if he’d checked the wedges,’ George’s normally cheerful face was haggard and grey. ‘Always in a rush he is. “Boats don’t earn no money on the beach, Father,” he’d say to me.’

  ‘Susanna, will you fetch two buckets of water, one boiling and one cold.’ As Edward glanced across at her, George’s words echoed in her head. The shoring collapsed and his leg was trapped under the boat. She tried desperately to push the all-too-vivid image from her mind. ‘Then go to the dispensary.’