by Jane Jackson
Lowell shook his head. ‘No, it is I who should apologise. I appear to have left my manners aboard my ship.’
‘That’s all right.’ The young man smiled shyly, wriggling like a puppy.
‘How many days did your passage actually take, Captain?’ Henry Bowles’ plummy voice held a note of challenge. Lowell switched his gaze to the tall company secretary. In the three years since they’d last met Henry had changed little. The silver-grey hair that he wore longer than was strictly fashionable in Victorian society gave him a poetic appearance totally at odds with his true personality. If the milk of human kindness had ever flowed through Henry’s veins it has long since curdled. But when the occasion demanded he could display exceptional charm – the cold, calculating mind hidden from all but those astute enough to recognise the mask for what it was.
‘One hundred and eight days.’
Henry’s patrician brows rose. ‘Captain Keys only took ninety-nine.’
‘Captain Keys loaded in Foochow,’ Lowell responded more sharply than he intended. He should have slept this afternoon but there had been too much to do. ‘The tea is ready for shipping from Foochow in June, before the south-west monsoon reaches its full strength.’
‘Is it indeed? Then why weren’t you among those taking advantage of this?’
‘Because in June I was …’ negotiating a pact with a warlord. ‘… elsewhere,’ Lowell replied easily. ‘In coastal trading you go where the cargoes take you. I loaded at Shanghai. The tea isn’t ready there until July or August. I’d say we made pretty fair time considering we hit a typhoon off Swatow and more storms at the Cape.’
‘I still think –’
Lowell leaned forward. Resting one elbow on the gleaming damask cloth, he toyed with the stem of his glass. ‘Henry, the speed and accuracy with which you can calculate the profit per cubic foot of storage space for a dozen different cargoes whose prices might have changed between collection and delivery is quite awe-inspiring. But,’ suddenly his quiet voice had the edge of an unsheathed blade. ‘You have never set foot on my ship. Nor, I suspect, on any other. A man who passes judgement on matters about which he knows nothing risks making a fool of himself.’
Though Henry’s aquiline nostrils whitened his control was superb. With a languid movement that conveyed boredom with the conversation he beckoned the waiter.
His point made, Lowell sat back smiling pleasantly.
‘Is it true what we read in the papers, Captain?’ Terence Barker, the chief clerk, peered over his pince-nez. ‘Are the China Seas really infested with pirates?’ He seemed both intrigued and appalled by the possibility.
‘It is,’ Lowell replied evenly.
The young clerk’s eyes rounded with awe. ‘Have you ever been attacked by pirates, Captain?’
Swallowing a yawn Lowell nodded. ‘It’s an occupational hazard in that part of the world.’
‘Please, Captain,’ the young clerk begged. ‘Do tell us. What happened?’
Lowell glanced round the table. Two of the ladies were gazing at him with wide-eyed admiration. Used to this reaction he took little notice of it. Some people were easily impressed. The expression of the third woman was more speculative.
‘I was young midshipman on the Guinivere. We were on our way through the Gaspar Straits into the Java Sea. But the wind had come round and was against us.’
As he spoke memories sucked him back through time. He was once more on the clipper’s deck. On either side of the ship islands, steep and thickly wooded, rose out of the water their summits shrouded in mist. Above the crack of canvas, creaking ropes, and the hiss of the water along the hull he could hear monkeys chattering and shrieking in the trees. Birds he couldn’t see screamed eerily.
The sun was already low on the horizon and Lowell felt a twist in his gut as he realised they would have to anchor where they were for the night. Darkness made it impossible for the lookouts to take soundings or spot the tell-tale shadows of reefs and shoals lurking just beneath the surface. Powerful currents surged around the submerged rocks. Once in their grip Guinivere would be dragged onto the jagged black teeth that would bite through her sturdy hull as easily as biting through a soaked biscuit.
As the anchor was dropped Lowell scrambled aloft with the other boys to reef in all the upper sails. They worked feverishly in silence, the tropical night enfolding them like thick black velvet. Sweat trickled down his back. The air was stifling, heavy with the foetid stench of decaying vegetation.
In the silence the coughing roar sounded very close. Lowell started. The boy balanced next to him gasped, his foot slipping through the rope on which he was standing. He began to arch backwards, arms flailing wildly. Hooking one arm around the spar to which they had been tying the sail Lowell grabbed the boy’s shirt and slammed him forward against the topmast. A flailing fist caught him a glancing blow high on his right cheek making his eyes water and his head ring. Wrapping his arms around the mast the boy gulped. ‘Th-thanks.’ He swallowed again. ‘What was that?’
Lowell blinked hard. He could barely see and his cheek stung painfully. ‘A tiger, I think.’
‘Oi, you lads!’ The first mate’s voice floated up to them. ‘Stop fooling about, and get that gear stowed.’
‘Aye-aye, sir,’ Lowell shouted down. He turned to the boy whose face was just a pale blur in the darkness. ‘Are you all right?’
‘‘Course I am,’ the boy’s robust claim ended with another gulp. ‘You can let go now.’
Lowell was surprised how difficult it was to unclench his fingers and release the bunched material in order to finish tying up the sail.
Back on deck they exchanged wary glances as seamen rushed to and fro carrying grape and canister shot to load the six-pounders. In the galley the poker was heating in the fire ready to light the fuses. Two men carrying rifles ran to the fo’c’sle head and the poop. Lowell’s heart was thumping and his muscles tightened in mingled excitement and fear.
The captain shouted for attention and in the sudden silence Lowell heard a soft splash. Whirling round he glimpsed a ripple of phosphorescence as something disturbed the dark water. He knew an instant’s agonising uncertainty. What if he shouted and it was only a fish? He stared into the blackness, straining his eyes, not daring to breathe in case he missed anything. Then he saw it again, closer this time.
He opened his mouth to scream a warning. At the same instant the lookout on the poop fired his rifle and bellowed, ‘Proas on the port quarter!’ The next few minutes were a mind-numbing hell. The cannons roared and men shouted, labouring furiously to reload and fire again. Lowell crouched on the deck, digging the metal canisters loaded with shot from their boxes and passing them to the men manning the guns, his head spinning with the noise. Steel clashed on steel, spears entered living flesh with a wet thud, the wounded screamed. His stomach heaved at the acrid pungency of explosive, the hot sweet smell of blood and the sour sweat of fear.
It ended as suddenly as it had started. Crawling to the side he peered over and caught a quick glimpse of a wounded man being dragged from the water onto the single outrigger. Then the proas vanished, swallowed up in the darkness. He had slumped to the deck, his head bent over his hunched knees, shaking uncontrollably.
‘I can only imagine it is a most unpleasant experience,’ the chief clerk’s pursed lips indicated severe disapproval.
‘Mmm,’ Lowell agreed expressionlessly. ‘Especially when one is only twelve.’ He watched the two women exchange a horrified glance. He knew what they were thinking. What had he been doing there? How could his parents have allowed it? etc. etc. Attempting to explain would only add to their confusion. Far better that everyone continued to believe the family stood united.
‘Pirates are only one of the dangers we face in those waters. There are also an unpleasantly large number of uncharted reefs and banks. Believe me, given the circumstances I made remarkably good time.’ Raising the glass to Henry in mock salute, Lowell took a large gulp. How soon could he get away? If h
e didn’t get some sleep …
‘Do you realise,’ Gilbert Kirby looked round the table, ‘Captain Hawke brought his ship into the docks only yesterday morning. Yet by last evening most of the tea had been landed, weighed, and the duty paid.’ His jubilant manner lightened the atmosphere at once. Nearing sixty, Gilbert had run the London branch of Hawke and Son for almost quarter of a century.
‘Before nightfall upwards of eighty chests of that same tea was already on its way to the far corners of the British Isles.’ Gilbert paused, smiling around the table. ‘And as some of it was bought by retailers right here in London, I venture to say that by last evening – less than twenty-four hours after Captain Hawke sailed into the Thames mind you – his cargo was being served at the tea tables of our capital city. Supplying the demand, ladies and gentlemen. That is the bedrock of Hawke and Son’s success. And I for one am proud to be a part of it.’ He raised his glass, beaming around the table.
Raising the goblet to his lips Lowell surveyed those who had been invited in his honour to the fashionable and expensive restaurant on this cold wet November night. Did they see it as the prodigal’s return? Four men, faces flushed with food wine and self-congratulation above their starched white collars. And between them – birds of paradise amid magpies – three wives.
Gowned in rainbow-hued taffeta and lace, their elaborate hairstyles crowned with egret feathers and glittering ornaments, they displayed varying amounts of lavishly jewelled cleavage. Two picked daintily at the food on their plates, too tightly laced to swallow more than a few mouthfuls. The other …
As she lifted her glass he noticed her fingers were short and strong looking. Quite different from Marjorie’s. Marjorie had long slender fingers, and skin so translucent the veins showed in a delicate blue tracery. Marjorie’s hands fluttered like caged birds, and clung. He was trapped. The strands that bound him gossamer-fine and quite unbreakable.
He clenched his teeth feeling a muscle jump in his jaw as he thrust thoughts of his wife to the back of his mind behind the barrier. He took another gulp of the bright ruby wine seeking escape from the pain.
The woman caught his eye. Holding his gaze she slowly passed the glass back and forth across her lower lip. Then with a barely perceptible smile she tipped it and swallowed. In spite of his resolve Lowell’s body stirred. Beneath heavy lids her eyes gleamed. Then she looked serenely away: a warm attractive woman, confident of her allure. Both knew that before the evening was over a time and place would be agreed.
Filling his mouth with Chateau Latour Lowell tried to wash away the taste of his treachery.
‘And your brother, Captain?’ Gilbert Kirby enquired. ‘Is he well?’
Exhaustion and the distracting sexual signals of Henry’s wife had caused Lowell’s concentration to lapse. But Kirby’s query, on the surface a routine politeness, brought him to instant alertness.
‘He’s fine,’ Lowell lied smoothly, his mind filling with images of his elder brother as he used to be. Tall and fair-haired John resembled their father in appearance. He in contrast, was shorter, more thickset, and had inherited their mother’s dark colouring. John had violet eyes which attracted adoring women in droves. His own were light grey – like ice on the sea was how his youngest sister had once described them – and their effect was very different. Younger women seemed wary of him. Those with more experience apparently considered him a challenge.
The last time he had seen his brother, the golden boy, repository of all their father’s hopes, John had been drunk and despairing. His physical and mental disintegration all too visible in the distortion of his once-handsome features.
‘We were hoping he might accompany you,’ Gilbert continued. Beneath the disappointment, hidden as good manners demanded, Lowell detected curiosity. ‘Your father did mention the possibility of Mr John coming over the year before last. But I believe business in Hong Kong prevented him making the voyage. Naturally we are all keen to meet the heir to Hawke and Son, the future hand on the helm so to speak. In the interests of continuity you under-stand.’
‘Naturally.’ Lowell allowed archness to edge his smile. ‘However as my father is in excellent health don’t you think it’s perhaps a little premature to be discussing his successor?’
Gilbert Kirby’s smile stiffened then faded as his features rapidly rearranged themselves to reflect his shocked denial. ‘I did not mean –’ He cleared his throat. ‘Captain, it is my dearest wish that Joseph Hawke continues, for as long as it pleases God to spare him, to lead this company to even greater success.’
‘A noble sentiment, Mr Kirby.’ Lowell raised his glass. ‘Let us all drink to that.’ But as the wine slid down his throat it left behind a bitter taste.
He had been fighting all his life. Fighting his father. Fighting to free himself from his brother’s shadow. Fighting for the right to follow his own star.
He had wanted to go to sea since he was old enough to frame the words. But Joseph Hawke had been determined that both his sons should follow him into the trading company he had inherited from his father-in-law and built up into one of the major merchant houses on the China coast.
John accepted the future mapped out for him. Lowell did not. His mother was reduced to tears and his father to near-apoplexy by his stubborn refusal. No-one seemed to care what he wanted.
Eventually, convinced it was just a whim, his father apprenticed him to one of the hardest clipper captains on the China Seas.
‘You say this is what you want, boy. Let’s see how you deal with it.’
‘Joseph, you can’t. He’s only a child,’ his mother pleaded.
‘If he’s old enough to defy me and spurn a future that would have most lads his age grovelling with gratitude, he’s old enough to find out what shipboard life is really like. I wager he’ll be scuttling back home in a month. A typhoon or two and the whole ridiculous notion will be out of his system once and for all, you wait and see.’
But contrary to his father’s expectations and, Lowell suspected, those of Captain McKenzie, commander of the Guinivere, he thrived. Life was hard, the work strenuous and demanding. Not only was it a severe test of physical fitness, but the young midshipmen also had to study geography, physics, and nautical astronomy, plus at least one of the Chinese dialects. They were expected never to lose their temper, to demonstrate at all times steadiness and courage, and to remain cool under provocation.
Lowell found it ironic that his father’s fierce opposition to his chosen profession should have bred in him precisely those qualities that helped him succeed.
Guinivere was a tea clipper, one of an elite band whose exploits were legendary. But Lowell soon learned there was another far more lucrative commodity being traded along the China coast.
Chapter Eight
‘Come, William,’ Samuel rose from the breakfast table. ‘Today you’ll be working with Norman. He will show you how to calculate the profits each boat has made on her year’s trading and how they are to be divided.’
William dropped his napkin beside his plate and pushed his chair back. ‘As each boat has sixty-four shares it’s just a matter of checking the names of the share-holders against the name of the boat. Am I right, Father?’
Samuel’s habitual dourness was replaced by a smile of pleasure. ‘Indeed you are, William. I was beginning to wonder if the financial side of the business was beyond your grasp.’
‘I feel much more confident now.’ As he followed his father out William shot Susanna a grin of gratitude.
‘I must go too,’ Frances said. ‘Richard thinks his mother might benefit from some of my black-currant cordial. I shall take some over before I go to the Infant school.’
Susanna rose too but was stopped by her mother.
‘Would you go down into town for me? I have a great deal to do this morning.’
Realising reluctance would provoke questions she forced herself to smile and look willing. ‘Of course.’
‘I need more writing paper and envelopes. Mr Nance
knows our preference. Also a reel of cotton thread, a packet of fine needles, and two skeins of ivory silk. And call into the chemist’s and ask Mr Hosking for a packet of dried dill and a small bottle of peppermint oil.’
‘Is Father suffering with his stomach again?’ At her mother’s nod Susanna’s shoulders drooped. ‘It’s me, isn’t it?’
‘Not entirely.’ Maria took several silver coins from a soft kid drawstring purse in the bureau and gave them to Susanna. ‘Your father has a thriving business which demands a great deal from him. He also takes very seriously the responsibility of being an Elder. More seriously perhaps than some others do.’
Susanna gripped the handle of her basket with both hands. ‘I really don’t mean to cause him shame.’
‘We both know that, Susanna. But continually apologising does not make a virtue out of a vice. If you were to think more carefully before you speak or act you would spare yourself, and us, a lot of pain.’
But you don’t approve of the things I want, thought Susanna. So what am I to do? I cannot simply forget about them.
As Susanna was about to seize this rare opportunity for a heart-to-heart talk, Maria turned away.
‘I trust you will not be going to the Seamen’s Home this morning,’ she called over her shoulder as she walked briskly out into the hall.
‘No, Mother,’ Susanna answered truthfully. She had an important errand of her own.
Closing the front door behind her she glanced up at the sky. Unable to sleep she had listened to a gusty wind hurl rain against the window like handfuls of gravel. But now the heavy cloud was breaking up to reveal patches of blue. As she gazed down at the panorama of coastline and water a ray of bright sunshine illuminated the gorse-covered hillside across the inner harbour.
It was an omen Susanna decided, her spirits lifting. Starting down the path, the air fresh on her face, she could smell damp earth, frying bacon, and the yeasty fragrance of newly baked bread.
