Artemis - Kydd 02

by Julian Stockwin

  '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 movement 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 up-river 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—'

  He could go no further. The priest grasped his arms and held him at length. lMeu Deus! You are sent to me on this day of days. Pray walk with me to my residencia and we will sup together the lunch.' Recollecting himself, he turned to Kydd. 'You gentlemen are mos' welcome, and you shall see the casa of our Luis de Camoes presently.'

  Kydd sighed. Neither the prospect of a discussion on Aristotle nor the inspection of this revered casa article was maintaining his spirits, which had looked forward to tasting the more direct pleasures of these foreign shores. Still, it was kind of the old fellow, and they did need something now, at noon. In any event, he had an hour or two to think of a ploy to raise the state of play to a more satisfactory level.

  The priest's modest cell was close by, and they entered the cool room, tastefully set off by the hand-painted blue and white tiles covering one entire wall. The furniture was commodious, in the Chinese style. The chairs were tall and square-backed in dark wood, with a carved central panel. Across one corner of the room was a beautiful black and gilt screen fully six feet high, with an iridescent shell inlay of butterflies and bamboo.

  Seated at the round table, sipping their green tea, they waited respectfully. The room smelt of the layered odours of untold centuries, and was redolent of peace.

  The priest smiled at them. 'My name is Nunez - my flock call me Honrar. It has been my good fortune to follow in the shadow of Matteo Ricci and Adam Schall here in the College of Sao Paolo for thirty-eight years. You are sailors, no?'

  'From the British frigate Artemis’ said Renzi.

  'Macao is very old, very set in her ways,' he said seriously. 'We Portuguese, it must be faced, have now passed the time of our greatness. For us, history has ceased.'

  Renzi made a gesture, but the priest was looking at Kydd. 'But you, the British, are a race that has found itself in these troubling times, and greatness lies waiting before you.' His face was difficult to read. 'Thus you will pardon me if I make myself clear. Do not expect us to like you. Your manners are turbulent and thrusting, you are impatient with the old ways, you are confident - very sure — and we are afraid of you.'

  Renzi stirred. 'But surely you can see that as a nation we trade, we do not conquer?'

  'Trade always brings a domination in its wake!' Nunez did not smile, and the two sailors sat uncomfortably.

  'We do not allow any of your trading hongs to own land or dwellings in Macao, only to rent. This is because, as you will surely see, you British are rich and powerful and we are not. You are growing restless at your lack of a trading port and may seize our own.'

  Hesitating, Kydd spoke awkwardly. 'Sir, I'm only a seaman, but I c'n see that Macao is too small for y'r deep-sea vessels — we saw a rattlin' good place for a port over the other side, Heung Kong its name.'

  The priest's eyes glimmered. 'A bare rock on which you will have to build houses, docks, roads — I don't think even the British would do that if there is another for the taking.' Unexpectedly, he got to his feet. 'But I am ungracious! Perhaps it has been so long since — excuse me.'

  He swiftly left the room, his dark gown swishing. Kydd turned to Renzi, but at his look did not speak. The priest returned with a bottle and three glasses. 'I hope you will join me at wine, cavalheiros?

  It was a musky Sercial, mellow and gentle. From somewhere inside the house floated a tantalising odour of food, but even in its richness there was nothing they could identify.

  'We eat in the Chinese style. It is cheaper and more convenient,' Nunez said apologetically. The odour took form and strength, of a potent but mouth-watering character. 'Oh, yes, I hope you do not mind, but it is my regula
r practice in this season to offer hospitality to another at noon - she will join us soon.'

  Renzi seemed not to have heard. His face grew in intensity and leaning forward he asked, 'The soul-stealers of the Kao Hsuang! Can it be that they have overthrown the sacred precepts of Confucius, or do they bend him to their philosophy?'

  'Ah! You know of these?' Nunez asked, in amazement. 'Your answer is that in their deviltry they have their own philosophy, and it is based on the Janus-faced sayings of Hsun-tzu, who teaches that—'

  The door opened and a figure appeared, limned in the sunlight from outside and therefore difficult to see.

  'Oh – Honrar’ You have guests. I . . .' It was a young woman's voice.

  'No, no, child, you are welcome. Please come in and take your place.'

  The door closed and Kydd watched a young lady unlace her bonnet to let her auburn hair tumble down in lazy waves. She stood uncertain, a petite but self-assured girl of less than twenty years, with an elfin face and large eyes. She looked directly at Kydd. She was pretty rather than beautiful but the strength in her features and the sharp sculpted curving of her face had its effect on Kydd — a sharp and uncomfortable sensual shock.

  Gracefully she sat down at the table, next to Kydd, managing to do so without looking at him again.

  'Minha cara, these are my guests,' Nunez said. 'They are sailors from the British warship .. .'

  'Nicholas Renzi and Thomas Kydd, horn Artemis frigate,' Renzi offered. Kydd caught his look of interest in the girl.

  'Miss Sarah Bullivant,' she said, sitting straight-backed, her hands firmly in her lap. 'I trust your visit will be a pleasant one,' she added, her eyes falling carefully between the two of them.

  'It could prove a lengthy one by all events,' said Renzi. Kydd thought that his manner was unnecessarily unctuous.

  She looked up. 'Pray, why will that be?' 'Why, I stand amazed the world does not know of it — His Britannic Majesty's envoy Lord Elmhurst awaits a reply from the Viceroy of Canton touching on his mission to the Emperor in Peking.'