by Jane Jackson
Today was Christmas Eve but there would be no family celebration this year. Frances would be with the Webbers. Her parents would be either at the Meeting House; visiting sick and elderly Friends; or distributing food and blankets to the poor.
She had volunteered to do three full days in the soup kitchen, releasing helpers with young families to spend Christmas with their own children instead of feeding someone else’s. Meanwhile she would be spared the ordeal of sitting through endless sermons and listening to prayers to a God she no longer believed in.
Lowell gently swirled the brandy in his balloon glass, sniffing the spirit appreciatively before swallowing. Once again the meal had been simple but well-cooked and delicious. After a fortnight spent overseeing repairs to the ship and the stowing of cargo it was pleasant to be once more in the Travellers’ Club beside a crackling log fire.
Declining invitations from various members of the London branch of Hawke & Son – none arrived from Henry Bowles – he had spent Christmas Day doing paperwork. It was a job he loathed. But with the sailing date fast approaching he’d had no choice but to shut himself in his cabin and get on with it.
‘Could you not have gone tramp-trading up and down the coast?’ Cathcart enquired.
‘Possibly. But intense competition for cargoes meant there was little profit to be made.’ It amused Lowell that the baronet should find details of a seafaring life so absorbing. Whatever his motives there was no doubting his interest. ‘Besides, thanks to Walter Samms I know the Yangtze better than most. And I had just bought my first schooner.’
‘But why salt?’
Lowell shrugged. ‘It paid well. The salt market for the whole of the interior of China is based at Eching, a large village on the north bank about eighteen miles above Chinkiang. Salt bought there costs the same as rice, roughly one pound sterling for one hundred and thirty pounds weight. But a few miles further upriver it sells at double the price. I used the profits from the salt to buy silk and cotton. They fetched excellent prices back in Shanghai.’
‘How did your father react to your success?’
Lowell felt the cynical smile lift one corner of his mouth. ‘He decided the rift between us had lasted long enough.’
‘And you accepted this olive branch?’
‘On my terms.’ He took another mouthful of brandy.
‘So all’s well that ends well.’ Cathcart raised his glass in salute.
‘Indeed.’ As the spirit burned its way down Lowell recalled his brother’s bitterness and jealousy the day he learned of the reconciliation. He had burst into the cabin, slamming the door against the bulkhead.
‘Damn you, Lowell. Why the hell did you come back? You must have been making a packet trading on your own, and you didn’t have to share the profits.’ Dismissing the mate with a nod Lowell had leaned back against the wooden panelling that formed a wide blunt triangle behind the padded bench seats. ‘It isn’t a question of money. Father’s ill.’
‘Ill? He never told me.’ Taking a silver hip-flask from his pocket, he wrenched off the cap and poured a large measure down his throat. He shuddered and wiped a runnel of whisky from his chin with the back of a shaking hand.
‘He wouldn’t tell anyone. You should know that. But you’ve only got to look at him.’
John made a vague gesture with the hip-flask. ‘I haven’t been in the office much lately.’ He took another swig. Years of dissipation had blurred the once-handsome features. Self-pity had cut creases between his brows and on either side of his mouth. His clothes were spotted and stained and could not disguise the drooping shoulders and beginning of a paunch.
‘It’s not bloody fair! When you went off to sea, it was me who bore the brunt of his anger. Me he ranted to about duty and obligations. But nothing I did was ever good enough.’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘Not bloody surprising, really. I mean, how could I compete with you?’
Lowell stared at him, unexpectedly moved by the despair that underlay his brother’s childish wail. ‘What are you talking about? Father disowned me.’
‘No, he didn’t,’ John retorted. ‘Not really. Oh, he threatened and made a lot of noise. He was furious with you for disobeying him.’ He sucked at the flask again, his face contorting. ‘But he admired your spirit and determination. He scoured the papers for news of any ship you were on. What bloody chance did I have? Christ, you’ve become a legend. That’s what you are, a bloody legend,’ he waved the flask, swaying. ‘Acclaimed and notorious. You’re the talk of the taverns.’
Leaning his elbows on the chart-strewn table, Lowell held his head in his hands. His glamorous reputation meant nothing to him. He took chances and ran risks, not because he was braver than other men, but because he didn’t care.
John gave another hard pain-filled laugh. ‘Funny, isn’t it? I should have been the success. I’m the eldest, and I’m a damn sight better-looking than you. And as Father’s heir – But people don’t realise –’ He kicked viciously at the polished deckboards then slumped onto the bench seat opposite, miserable and hopeless. ‘So many demands, so many expectations …’ he looked up bleary-eyed. ‘I’ve always been jealous of you.’
Lowell was incredulous. ‘What on earth for?’
‘You had a burning ambition – a star to follow. You got away.’ He lurched to his feet, staggering, his face twisted by anger and jealousy. ‘Why did you have to come back? Damn you.’
‘… future plans for the company?’ Cathcart’s question broke into Lowell’s introspection.
He swiftly gathered his thoughts. ‘My father would like to see Hawke & Son on a par with Jardine’s or Dent’s.’
‘Why not? With your father and brother to run things in Shanghai, a successful branch in London, and you pioneering new trade up the Yangtze.’ Glancing round, he beckoned the servant. ‘Two more brandies, George.’
‘Not for me.’ Lowell set down his glass. ‘Time I got back to my ship.’
‘A cab for Captain Hawke, George.’ As the servant left Cathcart said, ‘I’ll walk you to the door. When do you sail?’
‘The day after tomorrow. The lighter arrived from Woolwich Arsenal this morning.’
‘Everything satisfactory?’
‘Very. Now our people trading up-river in remote villages will be able to insist that the Treaties are honoured.’
‘I don’t really approve of gun-boat diplomacy, but …’
‘Needs must when the devil drives,’ Lowell grinned. They reached the entrance lobby where another servant waited with his greatcoat. Turning to the baronet Lowell held out his hand. ‘Thank you. For everything.’
Cathcart shook it firmly. ‘God speed, Hawke. I’ll be waiting to hear from you.’
Chapter Twenty
Worship over, people moved about the hall greeting one another.
‘Susanna, see if you can catch Frances before she takes Mrs Webber home, will you, dear?’ Maria turned to join a group of women talking in hushed tones.
Catching the word ‘Overseers’ Susanna sympathised with the person about to be investigated. Glimpsing her sister she eased through the crowd. Having no desire to speak to Mrs Webber she approached from behind and spoke softly.
‘Fran, mother would like a quick word before you go.’ As they moved away Mrs Webber, with astonishing speed and dexterity, reversed her walking stick and hooked the handle around Susanna’s forearm, yanking her to a halt. ‘One moment, miss. I want a word with you. Go and see what your mother wants, Frances. But don’t be long. Richard has gone to call a cab and will be waiting for us. Go on.’ After a brief anxious hesitation Frances hurried away.
‘Keep away from my daughter-in-law,’ Mrs Webber commanded. ‘She’s a good biddable girl, and I don’t want her head filled with any of your foolish nonsense. You’re a bad influence. It’s only out of respect for your parents that Visitors haven’t been appointed to make a report on your behaviour.’ Susanna stared at the crow-like woman. Dressed in unrelieved black, her plain white bonnet framing features furrowed
by years of discontent, Mrs Webber’s beady eyes were sharp with spite.
‘Tell me, Mrs Webber, what have I done to make you dislike me so?’
After a momentary widening the eyes narrowed to glittering slits. ‘Don’t you give me any of your cheek, miss. You’re an affront to decent Quaker womanhood. First it was the Seamen’s Home, then flaunting yourself in your father’s office. Now I’m told you’re down at Braithwaite’s Yard. It’s disgusting, that’s what it is. Disgusting! Stay away from Frances, do you hear? She has a husband to take care of, which is more than you’ll ever have.’
Shaking her arm free of the polished wood Susanna walked blindly to the door, and bumped into Lucy.
‘Are you all right?’
Taking a deep breath Susanna nodded.
‘Mrs Webber?’
‘Why, Lucy?’
‘People fear what they do not understand. Be strong, my dear.’
Susanna made a muffled sound that was half laugh, half choking sob. ‘I’m tired.’
Meredith bustled up, scarcely able to contain her excitement. ‘Has Lucy told you? We’ve had a letter.’ She pressed a hand to her bolster-like bosom, her features suddenly tragic. ‘So sad. And the baby too. God does make great demands on his servants.’
Susanna looked helplessly at Lucy who explained.
‘Mr Hudson Taylor’s wife died in Chinkiang on the 23rd of July. Apparently she’d had consumption of the lungs for some time. Her illness worsened during the summer. Then, just before the birth of her eighth child she suffered an attack of cholera which drained the last of her strength.’
‘Poor little mite,’ Meredith’s eyes filled. ‘He lived barely two weeks. Maybe if they’d got him a wet-nurse …’
‘Why didn’t they?’ Susanna asked.
Lucy’s gaze was unflinching. ‘They tried. But because of the anger against foreigners, especially the English, no Chinese would offer.’
‘But this was a baby,’ Susanna cried. ‘And the Taylors are missionaries, not opium smugglers or soldiers. What sort of people could stand back and watch an innocent baby die?’
‘People who need our help,’ Lucy said quietly.
‘I’m sure Lucy was afraid that after such news I might have second thoughts,’ Meredith confided. ‘But regardless of what the letter says I know Mr Taylor will welcome us. It is more important than ever that we are by his side, to assist him in bringing God’s message to these wicked heathens.’ Excitement lit her face. ‘All the legalities are settled and most of the packing done.’ The baby’s death was forgotten. ‘We did have a small setback over our passage. The steamer we hoped to take is already fully booked. But the agents are making enquiries and I’m sure we’ll get word very soon. Oh, there’s Mrs Lugg. I must catch her before she leaves.’
Watching Meredith cut a path through the chatting groups like a ship in full sail, unease pricked like a thorn.
‘Lucy –’
‘Yes?’
She couldn’t look so serene and confident if there was anything wrong.
‘Nothing.’
The wind was increasing, whipping the sea into heaving grey mounds marbled with white foam. ‘All hands to shorten sail!’ Lowell shouted. The deck canted beneath his feet as the schooner reared and plunged through the waves. The barometer had been steady and the wind a fresh south westerly breeze when they sailed out of the Thames.
Sensing a change Lowell had remained on deck. But wanting to retain the advantage of a good start he had left all sails set. A sudden swing in wind direction and an ominous drop in pressure and it was upon them, a vicious south easterly gale for which the English Channel was notorious.
Brown-grey cloud hurtled across the sky so low it seemed to brush the mastheads, releasing torrents of rain that mingled with the spray and cut visibility during the squalls to a few feet.
Waves began to break inboard, the spume-flecked water roaring across the deck and eddying around the hatches. It could not clear the scuppers before the next sea crashed in over the lee gunwale.
He had already ordered the pumps manned. Now his gaze flicked between the figures working aloft and the mountainous waves rushing at them in tumbled confusion from all sides. Come on, come on. But his mouth remained shut, his exhortation silent. He knew constant barracking was counter-productive. The crew either ignored it or nursed growing resentment. Both led to trouble.
The jibboom had gone, broken off like a carrot when the schooner’s nose was driven under with the first squall. Responding like a thoroughbred, she had shaken herself free of the tons of water as the crew worked like demons.
One by one the sails were being taken in and secured. But as the yard to the gaff topsail was loosed, a gust caught the canvas, filling it like a balloon and snatching the rope from the men’s desperate grip. Above the howling wind Lowell heard screams as skin was seared from callused palms. With a deafening crack the sail blew out. A long creaking groan was followed by a rending crash as the topmast snapped, falling in a tangle of ripped canvas and twisted rigging to smash against the foremast.
‘Cut her loose!’ Lowell ordered the carpenter and two ordinary seamen stationed at the masts with axes. They worked feverishly as the schooner slid into the trough of a huge wave. The mate and wheelman battled to keep her from broaching. If she turned side-on to the wind and waves they were done for.
Not daring to heave-to because of the risk of being pooped by one of the huge waves bearing down on them Lowell ordered two hawsers, one from each quarter, towed behind the vessel to smooth her wake.
Dusk closed in and for the rest of the night they rode the storm. By dawn the gale had blown itself out.
Emerging from the companionway hatch after an hour’s sleep Lowell nodded to the wheelman and inhaled deeply, filling his lungs as he looked about him. The sea was still a heaving lumpy mass but the wind had dropped to a gentle breeze and the sky was clear. The sun had not yet risen and a primrose tint on the eastern horizon merged into pale green which became turquoise then aquamarine and finally, high overhead, a freshly washed light blue.
As the first golden rays turned the water to ink and burgundy he made his way forward, checking the damage. They had suffered worse. But this voyage had only just begun. And though time was of the essence with some of the world’s most inhospitable oceans still to cross he could not afford to take chances. Repairs must be made. Returning to the stern he gave the wheelman a new course.
Walking through the yard Susanna heard the rhythmic clang of hammer on anvil as she passed the forge. Sawdust formed golden drifts beside sawpits between the timber pool and the dry wood store. She breathed in the smells of oil and hot pitch, the pear-like aroma of varnish, and the coconut scent of manila rope. Strange how quickly she had become accustomed to them.
Workmen nodded, used to her now, and went on talking.
‘Well, you know what they say, ’tis an ill wind. I jest ’ope we get a couple in ’ere.’
‘Extra work’ll mean extra money, and we’re always short of both this time of year.’
Before she reached the granite building that housed the sail locker and rope store as well as the yard office she had heard enough to realise that gales in the Channel were bringing an unexpected bonus to the town as ships limped into the harbour for repairs.
At the end of each day she took a cab to Dunstanville Terrace to report the day’s happenings to Uncle Joshua. Though out of bed he was still very weak. Sitting in an armchair beside the fire, his knees covered by a rug, he would listen as she related the progress on current jobs, telling him which ships had come in and which had left, giving him invoices to check, letters from suppliers, owners, agents and masters to read, and replies to sign.
At first he had chafed and worried, constantly voicing his doubts about her ability. Biting her tongue she had done exactly as he asked. He had meticulously double-checked her every move until Aunt Eleanor had lost patience.
‘For goodness’ sake, Joshua! The doctor said it was import
ant you get plenty of rest. The way you’re carrying on you might as well be down at the yard yourself. If you didn’t think Susanna could do the job, why on earth did you ask her?’
‘It was Lucy’s idea,’ he grumbled between spasms of coughing. ‘She said Susanna’s been doing similar work in her father’s office.’
‘I’ve always found Lucy a sensible woman.’ Eleanor busied herself plumping his pillows and straightening the covers. ‘If she believes Susanna can –’
‘It isn’t Lucy’s yard,’ he spluttered.
‘You won’t be around to care,’ Eleanor scolded, ‘if you don’t stop all this fretting.’
While they argued Susanna stood outside in the passage holding the ledgers, silently waiting. She had not received a single word of praise for her efforts. That was understandable. But the constant doubting of her intelligence and undermining of her confidence were harder to endure. But if enduring them meant she kept the job …
So she bit her tongue, was at all times demure and respectful, and continued to carry out her uncle’s instructions to the letter. It took a full week for him to accept that the yard was not about to grind to a halt, and was in fact continuing to function efficiently.
After that, though he still wanted a verbal report each evening, he sometimes waved the books aside and skimmed the letters rather than checking every word before adding his signature. There was still no praise, but admonitions were fewer.
Alone in the office, sitting at her cousin Charles’ desk, Susanna bent over the ledger trying to shut out the noise of the busy yard as she entered details of invoices and receipts.
