Artemis k-2

by Julian Stockwin

  ‘Don’ you chouse us, matey — we tips the Hoppo an’ he’ll settle yer soon enough.’ He folded his arms. ‘Whampoa’s fer merchantmen only — what’re yez doing here?’ The man’s hectoring tone annoyed Kydd, who got to his feet.

  Stirk interrupted him. ‘We’re here on a mishun,’ he told the merchant sailor softly.

  ‘A wot?’ he replied mockingly. Kydd stiffened.

  The man’s lips curled in a derisive sneer. ‘We don’ hold with no pretty boys in sailor suits here — it’s men only.’

  Kydd’s fist slammed out. The man fell back, roaring. Instantly, everyone was on their feet, defensively grouped behind Kydd.

  The man felt his bloody nose. Snarling, he drew his knife. Kydd’s heart thudded, but he was elbowed aside by Stirk, whose own blade was across his palm, held loosely forward.

  ‘Seen ‘is kind afore, mate - can’t take a joke.’ Stirk glanced behind, quickly. ‘About time we weren’t here, mates. Let’s head back.’

  Pitching his voice towards Kydd as they withdrew from the tavern the large man shouted, ‘You watch yer back ashore, mate. You ‘n’ me got somethin’t’ settle.’

  Stirk slid his knife back, and chuckled grimly. ‘Merchant jacks — got me sympathy, always short-handed an’ that, but pickin’ a man-o’-war’s man, they’d ‘ave t’ be pixy-led!’

  Kydd winked at Stirk. ‘Insultin’ the King’s uniform -couldn’t help m’self.’

  The last stage to Canton was through perfectly flat rice-fields that seemed to stretch away for ever into the immense unknown of Asia, an alien vastness that made Kydd shiver. Abruptly the last bend straightened and within sight of the city walls the northern bank opened up, with wide buildings fronting the river. In front of each was a flagpole with a national flag firmly in place.

  The largest and most central had the Union flag of Great Britain, and they headed towards it. Respectfully, Kydd handed the envoy up the wooden steps to the small group at the top.

  The sailors waited in the cutter until the formalities were complete. The envoy’s small party moved off, and a figure appeared at the edge of the wharf. ‘Hey, you lot, up here, chop, chop!’

  The seamen looked at each other, shrugged and clambered up. The young man at the top was in white silk breeches and loose shirt, and was coatless. He surveyed the group in surprise, their trim appearance apparently a novelty. ‘So, Lord Elmhurst has given instructions that you shall be the, er, guests of John Company while he is in Canton.’ There was a noticeable hesitation. ‘And it seems I shall be answerable for your conduct while he is here.’

  The young face had a patrician stamp and an easy confidence, but it was clear that its owner was unsure of a situation that placed him with the responsibility for a crew of hard-looking naval seamen.

  Stirk folded his arms and stared at him, while Quinlan stepped forward to the front and tugged his tarpaulin hat to an aggressive tilt.

  The young man seemed to come to a decision. ‘I’m Jamesen, supercargo in John Company for my sins.’ The tone of his voice suggested that he had decided to take them into his confidence rather than attempt to lord it over them. ‘Now, Canton is different from any place you’ve ever been to, and there’s rules here which are stupid, childish and cruel — but this is China, and we have no choice. There’s a hundred million Chinese over there,’ he said, waving towards the endless paddy-fields, ‘and we are a few hundred. Do you get my drift?’

  The interior of the mess was airy and cool, the furniture spare. With the seamen incongruously clutching an eggshelllike teacup of transparent green tea, Jamesen explained further. ‘Trade is everything — we buy tea, they buy … not much. They think they’re the centre of the world, and everyone else is a barbarian and needs to be kept at a distance, so all trade with the biggest country in the world is through the one place. Canton!

  ‘Now, I warn you in all sincerity, if you cause an incident, we can do nothing to save you. All dealings are through the Hoppo, a greasy, fat and entirely corrupt chief of the Co-Hong, which are a scurvy crew appointed by the Viceroy to deal with the barbarians and save him getting his hands dirty — as long as he gets his cut.’ He finished his tea and refilled his cup. ‘The season finishes soon, and we all have to fall back to our families in Macao, until March.’

  He paused, and grinned. ‘Your envoy will find that he will get his audience, and his presents will be graciously accepted, but he will have to wait for his reply at Macao like the rest, so

  I doubt you’ll be here long. There’s shops and things around here, we’re pretty self-contained. Wouldn’t advise going off on your own. Be in the mess by sundown, don’t get fuddled with drink, beware of everything and everybody.’

  They nodded. They were not about to go on the ran-tan ashore hereabouts.

  Jamesen softened a little. ‘If there’s any wants a stroll, it’s my practice to take a turn around the city walls before dark. Anyone want to come?’ Stirk and Kydd were the only takers.

  They stepped it out, down the narrow alleys and along the sandy northern banks of the Pearl river. Much closer to the city the bustle increased. Flooding the pathways were Chinese of every description, carrying trussed chickens, yokes suspending large dark jars and huge clusters of unrecognisable vegetables. Their constant chattering was deafening.

  ‘You know, it’s instant execution for any Chinese teaching the language to a foreign devil,’ said Jamesen. ‘Tui m syu!’ he added politely, stepping around an old lady struggling with a bound piglet.

  A palanquin with oiled-paper windows swayed towards them, preceded by a lackey in an embroidered gown banging a gong to clear a path. There was no sign of the occupant.

  Kydd noticed a ragged bundle floating in the river. ‘Ah, that you’ll find is a female baby - up-country they want strong sons, not useless girls. Easiest way to solve the problem,’ Jamesen explained.

  Just before the dilapidated walls was a small sandy beach, and a crowd gathered around some officials. A large drum pounded monotonously. ‘You may be interested in this,’ Jamesen said languidly.

  They hovered on the edge of the crowd and watched two men being brought forward. They had signs in Chinese characters around their necks, and their heads hung in listless dejection. ‘They’re pirates - probably peached on by their friends.’ The men were thrust to their knees, facing the water. Reading from a scroll, an official chanted loudly, then suddenly whipped it down and stepped back. From the crowd came a man bared to the waist, carrying a highly polished Oriental sword. He swaggered up to the first pirate and stood ready. The noise from the crowd buzzed on without change.

  At a screamed order from the official the executioner made ready, slowly and deliberately. Kydd went cold. The sword went up, the crowd’s chatter continued to wash around unabated; the victim had nothing but a blank look on his face but tensed slightly. The sword blurred down and connected with a meaty crunch, the head bounced twice on the sand while the torso toppled slowly, gouting blood from the neck.

  ‘Doesn’t seem to deter them,’ Jamesen commented. ‘The pirates, I mean.’

  There was no variation in the cheerful hum of conversations in the crowd. The seamen watched as the second pirate lost his head. Stirk looked at Kydd, but didn’t speak.

  The city walls were decrepit and crumbled at the edges. ‘Never really needed these since the Ming dynasty was overthrown,’ Jamesen said, kicking away a half-eaten gourd of some sort of fruit.

  They paced along slowly, deliberately ignoring the small barefoot boys who tagged on behind chanting, lFaan kwai! Hung mo-tik faan kwai lo!’

  At Kydd’s look, Jamesen explained, ‘Seems you’re the usual sort of a hairy foreign devil.’

  On the way back, they wended through a market, a riotous mix of women bargaining shrilly and vociferous stall-keepers. Edging around them, Kydd had never in his life felt so conspicuous, and was not helped by the many darting looks, some curious, most sullen and venomous.

  “Ere - rum dos!’ Stirk had seen a mo
vement in a large wicker basket and was standing over it, pointing. Kydd crossed to see and was shocked to see that it contained a human being, tied in a foetal position.

  ‘It’s not—’

  Jamesen cocked an eye, then grabbed his arm. ‘Leave now!’ His voice was urgent. The talking had died away around them, and there was hostility in the air. They hurried off, pursued by derisive shouts.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not your fault,’ said Jamesen breathlessly. ‘They’re on display.’ He paused to recover. ‘Don’ tell me!’ Stirk growled.

  ‘Yes. If they’re found guilty, they’re on display at the scene of the crime until sunset, then they’re taken out and strangled on the spot. Silk rope, of course.’

  ‘O’ course,’ Stirk said hoarsely:

  Jamesen sniffed into a handkerchief and went on. ‘They don’t like the foreign devils to get involved — I’ll be glad to get back to the compound. A few years ago they got hold of a gunner of a Bristol packet caught in an accident.’ He looked back furtively, and went on. ‘They tortured him publicly in front of the family concerned before strangling him.’

  *

  In the factory Jamesen found some wine. ‘Has to be drunk anyway before we retire to Macao. China is old and ancient,’ he mused. ‘Decaying on the inside and out. If some country knocked on the door hard enough, it would come crashing down and let some fresh air in. And trade.’ He drained the glass expertly. ‘As near eighty per centum of trade goes in English bottoms, I guess it’ll be us doing the deed some day - and I hope soon.’

  Hearing curt voices outside, Jamesen got to his feet. ‘Stay here,’ he commanded. He was back quickly. As I thought. You’ll be going down-river tomorrow to await the Viceroy’s reply. I’ll see to your sleeping arrangements.’

  Renzi said nothing, simply puffed quietly on his long clay pipe and sat back on the foredeck of Artemis. Kydd tried to provoke him, but could not break his composure, only a slight smile betraying anything of his feelings. The others had left the deck when the chill of evening crept in, leaving the two alone.

  ‘An’ you are telling me this is th’ mark of civilisation?’ Kydd continued, with heat.

  Renzi stirred and knocked out his pipe on the planksheer. Red sparks of dottle cascaded prettily into the gloaming. ‘My dear fellow, how can I say? I was not there, I was never a witness to these … untoward events.’ Inwardly he was hot with indignation that he had not been able to see for himself. He was sure that the savant would not lie, and that the precepts of Confucius did indeed inform the actions of the ruling class, but this?

  Kydd snorted. ‘If you had seen f’r yourself only - or, better still, smelt f’r yourself! It’s a — a beast of a country.’ He longed for the words to put into stark, unmistakable perspective for Renzi what he had experienced: the stink, the cacophonous noise, the unconcern for life.

  ‘If we remain for long here, I’ve no doubt I shall. But I hear tomorrow we shift berth to Macao.’ He looked sideways at Kydd. ‘Which, as you will know, is a Portuguese territory, and therefore an ally of ours in this war, and I have no doubt will give us a warm welcome.’

  Kydd grunted. ‘It’ll still be the same as the rest of China.’

  Chapter 8

  The opposite side of the Pearl river was nowhere near as spectacular: in place of the deep clear green were the muddy shallows of the estuary, and around them craggy islands lay subdued and sleepy. However, where their great anchorage was nearly bereft of human habitation, Macao offered a compact, pleasing prospect of familiar buildings from the home continent. As their anchor splashed down, it was possible to make out dark stone forts, the facade of a cathedral, state buildings in a comfortable pink wash and all the appurtenances of a sane world.

  Kydd’s heart lifted. It would be good to step ashore here. ‘Do we get liberty soon, d’ye suppose?’

  As they spoke, a nineteen-gun salute puffed out in distant thuds from the fort commanding the town below, to be returned with the sharper report of the frigate’s bow deck guns as she glided to a stop. Boats were quickly in the water and the envoy, in plumed cocked hat and sword, went down the side to his waiting barge for the steady pull over to the quay and the guard of welcome.

  The boat secured to the landing stage, and in dignified silence the envoy of His Britannic Majesty mounted the steps. Harsh shouts from the waiting Portuguese guard commander brought his men to attention.

  Lord Elmhurst and his equerry turned - and stopped. The formed up ceremonial guard that stared back at them was of every possible tint of mestizo, undersized and with threadbare regimentals. Their European officers wore ornate uniform that, however, drooped sadly. But there was no mistaking the warmth of the welcome. With earnest cries of welcome the desembargador advanced on them.

  The envoy, deciding that there was no deeper meaning to the astonishing sight, moved forward, to the almost perceptible relief of the Portuguese.

  ‘So it’s leave t’ both watches,’ Doud said, with relish. ‘An we’re gonna be here fer ever, if it’s ter be believed,’ he added contentedly.

  ‘Aye, but without s’ much as a single cobb in me bung, what’s th’ use?’ said Cundall ungraciously.

  Petit had a long face. ‘What’s amiss, Elias?’ Kydd asked.

  Stirring in his seat, Petit said dourly, ‘It ain’t good fer a man-o’-war ter stay too long in port. Seen it ‘appen in foreign parts, y’ gets all the sickness ‘n’ pox goin’ from off of the land. Sea, it’s clean ‘n’ good, land …’

  ‘Yeah, well, no harm in a frolic ashore,’ laughed Doud. ‘A cruise with a right little piece sets a man up fer his next v’yage.’

  Kydd was stitching carefully at the fluting of the smart blue jacket Renzi had last worn in celebration in Portsmouth, on the other side of the world. ‘Seems regular enough, buildings and such/ he said, biting off the thread and picking up his own jacket.

  ‘They’ve been here since before the age of old Queen Bess - plenty of time to make themselves comfortable, I think,’ Renzi replied, and put on his jacket.

  ‘What d’ye think to find there, Nicholas?’

  ‘I’d be content to see where Camoens wrote the immortal Luisiadas.’ At the dry looks this received, he persevered: ‘Grievously shipwrecked, then manages to get himself banished to here. The poem is about one of the greatest of sailors — Vasco da Gama.’

  There were no sudden cries of understanding although Petit nodded wisely. ‘But, mark you, Kydd’s right - this’s still China, ‘n’ Toby ‘as told me a piece about what he saw in Canton. I’d steer small were I ashore, if I wuz you.’

  With the Walmer Castle on her slow way upriver to Whampoa to discharge and load, and the rest of the envoy’s party safely conveyed to their lodgings, the ship prepared for the wait. Even with the busy China trade vulnerable, for some reason the French had not reached this far across the globe, perhaps distracted by the work of the guillotine and the frenzied mob at home. It was considered therefore that the threat was low, and that the frigate could remain quietly at rest.

  Artemis lay in harbour to two anchors. Her sails were thoroughly dried, naked topmasts sent down. Communication was set up with the shore for a daily supply of victuals, and soft tack was on the table for the first time since England. With the frigate as trim and shipshape as could be found in any top naval port it was time to step ashore.

  The leafy sweep of the Praia Grande gave the appearance of some comfortable Iberian town but for the fact that the majority of the population was not European. Besides the ubiquitous Chinese there was the black of Negro slaves, the varying shades of brown of half-castes, and only occasionally the short, dark, compact figure of a Portuguese.

  The gaudily coloured buildings were Portugal transplanted, and Pinto’s eyes glistened with emotion. He stopped a Portuguese striding past and babbled to him, a curious thing for his shipmates to witness. The man looked at him contemptuously and gestured eastwards into the crowded city. ‘He say all sailor go to Solmar to get hickey,
’ Pinto said happily.

  ‘So we claps on all sail ‘n’ shapes course for th’ Solmar!’ Stirk said, to general approval.

  ‘Perhaps we will join you later, Toby,’ said Renzi diplomatically, catching Kydd’s arm, and they plunged into the unknown inner city. The streets were steep and impossibly crowded. It was as if every square inch was valuable, and they were soon lost in the maze of ancient shops and anonymous structures seething with humanity.

  They emerged suddenly from the press towards the top of a rise at the stone face of a cathedral, glowering down the hill at them, it seemed to their Protestant sensibilities. From the dark interior a priest emerged, a neat goatee beard flecked with grey on his sensitive lined face. He paced down the hill towards them, clearly in deep thought.

  ‘ S’il vous plait, aidez nous, mon Pere!’ Renzi tried, his Portuguese non-existent.

  The man’s head jerked up in astonishment, and his hands fluttered in non-comprehension. ‘Non, er, non!’ he said, his voice high-pitched and agitated.

  Renzi tried again. ‘Bitte helfen Sie uns, Hochwurden.’ The language of Goethe would be an unlikely acquisition for a Portuguese, but Renzi felt that his Latin would not be equal to the strain, and he was now at a loss.

  ‘Do you have any Englis’?’ the priest asked hopefully, his eyes darting between the two of them.

  ‘Ah, sir, then you are a scholar?’ Renzi said politely.

  The priest flashed a quick look at him and smiled. ‘Where there is trade, you find the Englis’ and there is much trade here.’

  ‘Then, sir, if you could assist me in a small way, we seek Camoens, the soldier-poet of the last age. Is there trace of him still?’

  The priest’s face turned from astonishment to bewilderment, and then satisfaction. ‘You, sir, are then the scholar!’ He shot a speculative glance at Renzi and ventured carefully, ‘Aristotle - prophecy in sleep? Sir, I am no friend to his position, but I will gladly debate the matter at—’