by Porter Hill
To the east, the praus struggled to follow the change of tack, but the Marine’s cannon fire, and the native vessels’ inability to meet the wind, spread the Sulus into instant disarray.
Through clouds of smoke, Horne caught sight of a figure staggering from the companionway. Cheng-So Gilbert. The interpreter stared in horror at the smoke and confusion around him. Groping to steady himself, he tried to attain his balance but the cannon sent forth another volley and he went sliding across deck.
Horne’s attention was diverted to an explosion across the water. A few seconds later the deck shook beneath his feet.
The Sulus had scored their first strike. But there was no time to worry about damage. He looked fore as the prow speared its way through the enemy line, Sulu cries drowning the smashing of wood, the ripping of the praus’ palm-mat sails.
Kiro’s guns recoiled a third time. Worried about the enemy’s response, Horne raised the spyglass and saw through the smoke that the lead praus were still struggling to make their stays.
Another impact shook the deck.
The strike had hit the larboard—from the praus which had been lingering to the rear.
Looking astern, Horne saw the side escort’s shot splashing in the sea, unable to make its mark.
The wind strong at her stern, the Huma sped onwards through the wreckage of the northern escorts, through men clinging to boards and bits of mat sail.
It had worked! The flock of brown sparrows was left behind in disarray as the big seabird swept away from their circle.
Relieved and triumphant, the crew broke into abandoned shouts and cries, hugging one another, waving bandanas, ripping off the dhotis from their loins to fly them high in the rigging, wildly slashing the cotton strips back and forth as they danced on deck.
Horne’s face creased into a smile as he witnessed the hands’ jubilation. Raising the spyglass to his eye, he was gratified to see the Sulu praus floundering in disarray to the south.
Babcock slapped his back. ‘You crafty old fox, Horne. You did it.’
Jingee was still anxious. ‘Will they catch us, Captain sahib?’
‘They’re too tangled,’ answered Horne, studying the distant confusion through his spyglass. ‘The praus changing course are careering into one another.’
Babcock filled his lungs with fesh air, booming, ‘This wind at our arse will soon put the miles ‘tween us, too.’
Horne was indeed grateful for the fresh wind that blew them northwards. Wondering what lay ahead, he swept the horizon for any sign of sail. They now had to concentrate on the purpose of the mission—overtaking the China Flyer.
Chapter Sixteen
MACAO—THE CHINA FLYER
The China Flyer approached Macao through a channel less than a mile wide, guarded each side by a squat fort. The roadstead beyond was crowded with boxy fishing junks, European merchantmen tilting at anchor, sampans with central awnings. There were canoes and rafts among the sampans, paddled by men, women and children noisily hawking fruit, vegetables or poultry, shrilling their availability to do laundry, sew clothing or provide love.
Lothar Schiller stood on board the China Flyer, sipping a cup of bitter tea in the dank morning as he appraised the ramshackle wooden houses and rickety bamboo moorings dotting the swamps. The gilded crosses crowning the distant Catholic missions did nothing to alter his impression of Macao as one of the ugliest, most uninviting settlements he had ever seen.
A tapping against the deck attracted his attention. He turned but did not immediately recognise the man approaching him.
Attired in a raspberry-silk frock-coat and powdered wig, George Fanshaw wobbled towards Schiller in high-heeled court shoes, tapping an imperious ivory staff against the deck as he walked.
Mein Gott! Does this fool think he looks like a gentleman? Schiller fought to suppress a howl of laughter as Fanshaw advanced towards him in the foppish outfit.
Flicking a lace handkerchief, Fanshaw ordered, ‘Neither you, Mr Schiller, nor the crew shall go ashore in Macao.’
‘How long do we stay here?’ asked Schiller, and forced himself to add, ‘—Herr Fanshaw?’ He must try to remain respectful until Fanshaw had paid him his money.
‘I go now to seek the Hoppo’s permission to proceed up the Pearl River.’ Raising his hand, the wrist heavy with ruffled lace, Fanshaw pointed to a copper-roofed building across the harbour. ‘I’ll need a boat to row me to their offices, Mr Schiller.’
Schiller nodded, muttering, ‘Aye, sir,’ and turned to execute the order. He had little reason or desire to linger in conversation with Fanshaw.
‘Do not allow anybody aboard ship in my absence,’ Fanshaw called after him.
Schiller paused. ‘Not even Manchu officials?’
Fanshaw patted a large pocket on his frock-coat. ‘I am going to take care of the officials now.’
Schiller understood. ‘I hope you save something for me.’
‘You’ll get your share when we reach Whampoa, Mr Schiller.’
More loudly, he called, ‘Make certain no enemies come aboard ship, do you hear? You’re to consider everybody an enemy, understand?’
Schiller’s tea had turned cold by the time he returned to his position. Emptying the cup over the side, he saw the oarsmen bending their backs in unison as they rowed Fanshaw through the harbour congestion.
Watching the wherry move through the sampans, rafts and canoes, he wondered: Did Fanshaw have reason to worry about enemies attacking him? His biggest fear was still that the East India Company would send the Bombay Marine after him.
Schiller faced the grim truth of his situation: whether he liked Fanshaw or not, he would have to protect him against any and all rivals if he was ever going to get paid.
* * *
At the age of ten, Lothar Schiller had been hired out by his father as a cabin boy to the Prussian merchant ship, the Melanchthon. After sailing back and forth from the North Sea to the Baltic, he learned on his return to Hamburg that his father had died in his long absence, and that his mother had married a Hanoverian apothecary, leaving no word of where her son could find them.
Lothar Schiller had grown up under many flags. Hanoverian. Austrian. Prussian. He had lived, too, in many towns. Bremen. Cassel. Hamburg. Consequently, at the age of thirteen he felt no loyalty to any king or country, only a kinship to the race whose language he spoke—German.
Finding himself homeless, Schiller had lied about his age in order to fight as a mercenary foot soldier with the French Army commander, Maurice de Saxe, against the Duke of Cumberland’s Allied Army in Flanders. Knowing little about the War of the Austrian Succession, and not caring to know, he only worried about the money pouch he would receive as his soldier’s pay.
Attached to the Irish Brigade under de Saxe, Schiller met British soldiers of fortune who taught him his first words of English. He learned, too, that careers could be made in Europe’s professional armies.
Fired by the hope of joining such a force, he travelled to England, but there was no market for his services at that time. Instead, he signed on with a succession of merchant ships plying between England, Scotland, and Denmark. As much at home on the sea as he had been on land, he quickly graduated from deck hand to helmsman’s mate, making friends with men below decks as well as with young officers.
Then came a chance to sail to Madras aboard the HEIC Indiaman, Castle Bukeley; Schiller seized it, secretly hoping to find work in India as a mercenary soldier in the struggle between the French and the English. He disliked the orderliness of Company merchantmen and longed for the rough-and-tumble life of soldiers for hire.
Although the Seven Years War had not officially ended in Europe, fighting had ceased in India by the time Schiller arrived at Fort St George. Rather than return to England on the Indiaman’s home voyage, he signed on with Company ships trading between the East Indian islands.
Work proved to be scarce, an increasing number of Lascar sailors taking jobs usually reserved for European seamen. Schil
ler spent months unemployed, scouting for work in Madras’s Black Town.
In February of this year, he had heard a rumour of employment being offered by an Englishman organising a private venture to China. He had several meetings with Fanshaw, convincing him of his ability both to command a ship and to keep silent about the voyage. The promise of gold influenced his decision to work for the unlikeable man.
The harbour noises of Macao brought Schiller’s attention back to the present. Looking in the direction where Fanshaw’s boat had disappeared through the crowded sampans, he regretted having taken this job on the China Flyer. The advantage of being a mercenary soldier was that a man seldom met his employer; it was easy to fight for a king you neither loved nor hated. But Schiller knew that he had actually come to detest George Fanshaw.
Chapter Seventeen
MACAO—THE HUMA
Six days north of Borneo, Jud sighted a mountain peak breaking through the low-hanging morning clouds.
As the Huma skimmed across the westerly edge of the South China Sea on the briskly holding winds, a rocky coastline became visible off the larboard beam. Excitement about a landfall brought men running to the side and, as they watched, twin mountain peaks appeared on the north-west horizon.
On the quarter-deck, Cheng-So Gilbert told Horne, ‘The Chinese call those two mountains—’ He held a stubby finger to either side of his round head. ‘—asses’ ears.’
Jingee spotted boats clustered against the shoreline.
The Sulu pirates still fresh in Babcock’s mind, he asked, ‘Damn! Do we have to run out the guns?’
Studying the vessels through his spyglass, Horne saw that the centre of each long, low boat was spanned by a low cabin.
‘Sampans.’ He passed the spyglass to Groot. ‘Totally undisturbed by our presence.’
Cheng-So Gilbert agreed. ‘The Chinese have little curiosity about foreigners. They’re probably fishermen out for the day’s early catch.’
Small islands, clusters of grey rock stubbled with pale green moss, dotted the coastline as the wind carried the frigate on its north-eastern course towards the Pearl River estuary. As the sun rose higher in the east, Horne estimated that they would soon be approaching the river mouth and decided that it was time to change his clothes. Governor Pigot had strongly impressed upon him the importance of turning out properly attired on this mission. He must look like a true officer of the Honourable East India Company when he presented himself to the Hoppo in Macao.
Fresh linen, brightly polished boots, immaculate breeches and frock-coat awaited Horne in his cabin. A basin of hot water stood ready and, tying back his hair, he began to shave, inwardly dreading the loss of the freedom he had enjoyed in the past weeks. Bare-footed, his shirt open to the waist, he had basked in the day-to-day comfort of being a Bombay ‘Buccaneer’ rather than a stuffy, overdressed ‘Marine’.
The days when they had been becalmed, even the brief but threatening captivity by the Sulu islanders, in retrospect seemed preferable to dressing in his uniform and confronting the Imperial representatives of the Manchu court. But, then, had not the happiest periods of his life always been the journeys between two ports? Seldom the departure, certainly not the arrival.
Planning how best to present himself to the Hoppo, Horne decided to take only Cheng-So Gilbert ashore with him. A personal escort of Marines would be impressive, certainly, but only if they were smartly dressed in uniforms decorated with gold braid and high-standing collars. Horne’s five prized men would impress the Chinese as being nothing more than a pack of tatterdemalions in their bare feet and dungri trousers. The Lord only knew what the arrogant Portuguese would make of the motley Marine unit arriving in Macao. Horne hoped to avoid all contact with them.
There were practical reasons for not taking the five Marines ashore. This was not the end of the mission and, needing a crew for the return voyage to India, Horne wanted every Marine and seasoned hand to guard the recently recruited men from abandoning ship. The chances of supplementing his crew in China were negligible.
A knock on the door disturbed Horne’s meandering thoughts. Turning from the small looking-glass where he had been studying the results of his razor, he opened the door and was surprised to see Jingee standing outside.
The morning meal had been served. There had been ample hot water for shaving. And Horne was certainly not like the officers of His Majesty’s Royal Navy, who required a man to help them dress.
Bowing, the diminutive Tamil asked, ‘Is everything to your satisfaction, Captain sahib?’
‘Perfectly, Jingee.’ What the devil …?
Jingee’s small black eyes darted past Horne into the cabin. ‘Shall I give your coat one last brushing, Captain sahib?’
‘No, Jingee. It’s quite satisfactory.’ What does he want?
Dropping his eyes to his bare feet, Jingee hesitated, ‘Captain sahib … Will you be wishing me to go ashore with you in Macao?’
‘No. I’ll take Mr Gilbert.’
‘Oh …’ Jingee’s eyes remained on the cabin floor.
He was jealous. Of course, that was it. How stupid not to have noticed the signs before now. Jingee prided himself on being secretary, personal servant, dubash to Horne. But since leaving Madras it had been Cheng-So Gilbert who had spent long hours with Horne on the quarter-deck and at dinner, explaining Chinese customs, commenting on the charts, describing ancient ways and traditions.
Determined to dispel all this foolishness, Horne ordered firmly, ‘You shall stay aboard ship, Jingee, while we secure a pilot to take us up river.’
‘Yes, Captain sahib.’
Horne explained considerately, ‘I want you to see that no man goes ashore, Jingee. We cannot completely trust our new recruits from Fort St George.’
‘You’re always most cautious, Captain sahib.’
‘You can also add to our stores, Jingee, if you see anything that might make the crew’s table more enjoyable. They deserve a treat.’
‘I have money, Captain sahib, from what you gave me in Madras.’
‘If there’s any left from that, you might see if you can get some wine for my table.’
Disheartened, Jingee turned and went up the companionway.
* * *
The rowing-boat inched through the press of harbour craft, Cheng-So Gilbert crouching behind Horne, pointing to the tiered roofs of the Portuguese Governor’s Palace, the ancient Monkey Shrine surrounded by a tangled swamp, the golden crosses of the Jesuit mission gleaming high above the fetid harbour.
The Portuguese had established themselves in Macao two hundred years earlier, explained Cheng-So Gilbert, interrupting his historical monologue to shriek at the vendors paddling alongside Horne’s boat. They carried bamboo crates of live chickens, earthenware casks of rice beer, multi-shaped baskets of white gourds, bean cakes, pastries, long, strange-looking cabbages.
More sampans crowded the distant docks; the din of squealing pigs, barking dogs and chattering voices floated across the grey-black water. Beyond the boats, lines of rickety hovels faced the harbour, a few of the buildings fronted with English signs, among them, ‘The British Inn’.
Macao was crowded and dirty and insalubrious. Horne wondered how much of this congestion and filth was intrinsically Chinese, how much the influence of Portuguese settlers.
The oarsmen had propelled them across the narrow-mouthed harbour and were approaching a squat building roofed with copper. Cheng-So Gilbert tapped Horne’s shoulder, drawing his attention to a column of soldiers marching along a wide pier; the end was dominated by six green bronze cannon facing the inlet’s mouth.
‘The Office of the Imperial Hoppo,’ explained Gilbert and ordered the oarsmen to make for the brass-inlaid steps extending from the pier down into the murky water. The column of marching soldiers had halted and at the top of the steps stood an official, tawny face impassive beneath a small cap fastened under his chin by a black silk cord.
After an exchange with the officer, Gilbert motioned Horne
to precede him up the steps.
Horne grabbed the hand rail and stepped out of the boat, surprised that the officer did not offer a greeting, not a flicker of salutation. Was this a hint of the reception awaiting him in the office beyond?
Taking a deep breath, he looked towards the end of the pier and saw a pair of tall black lacquered doors, flanked by guards in long black cloaks, their hands resting on the hilts of gently curved swords. Behind him, the other guards fell into position.
Horne walked authoritatively towards the doors, the leather heels of his boots echoing on the wooden pier, while Cheng-So Gilbert’s black satin slippers softly pad-pad-padded at a respectful distance behind him.
The lacquered doors opened as Horne approached. Passing into an entrance hall, he was pleased when Gilbert came up beside him and called to two men simply garbed in plain robes, approaching from the opposite direction.
Horne produced his documents from the pocket of his frock-coat. Cheng-So Gilbert took them and, bowing, passed them to the robed men.
‘Captain Horne, you may wait here.’ He pointed to a sliding rice-paper door.
The chamber beyond had no furniture. The lighting came from a window high on a white wall. The only decoration was a Manchu dragon painted on gold silk.
Alone in this spartan room, Horne paced the wooden floor as he considered for the first time the possibility of the Hoppo refusing the Huma permission to proceed up river to Whampoa. How should he plead his case? Could he turn to the Portuguese for support? Had other East India Company ships arrived from England before the monsoon? Would they be in Whampoa?
Horne disliked the total impotence that travellers suffered in strange lands. Even after being based in India for eight years, he frequently felt isolated there by the barriers of language and custom.
Compared with China, however, India seemed bright, colourful and welcoming. China reminded him of the few Chinese water-colour paintings he had seen—pale, mannered, intrinsically cold.
