by Porter Hill
The baronet nodded. ‘Renewal was granted to me this very day, I’m pleased to say.’
‘Did the Company ask any questions?’ inquired Thistle.
‘No,’ answered Sir Jeremy. The licence to trade in Bantam was a cover for the building and fitting of the merchantman. ‘So far nobody has shown any interest in my plans.’
‘Any questions about how you raised the money to renew your licence?’ Cowcross’s eyes danced beneath his thick brows, enjoying the execution of the plot he had laid.
‘I mentioned to the Court of Directors that I’m contemplating taking on partners.’
‘Did they ask who those gentlemen might be?’
‘The licence allows me partners, and I assure you, Mr Cowcross,’ Sir Jeremy added quickly, ‘there will be no problem on my part. Especially when the Duke of Turley intervenes on our behalf with the Crown.’
‘Yes, back to Turley,’ said Thistle. ‘When do we meet him?’
‘As I said, sir, the Duke of Turley is waiting to hear whether we obtain China’s permission to trade.’
‘And he gets his money,’ repeated Crowcross.
The apothecary, Kidley, interrupted. ‘It’s all very fine to be concerned about Crown approval. But the important side of this venture still remains the Orient. Let us fret not so much about the Duke of Turley as about George Fanshaw in China. Did he make his escape from Madras? Is the Company pursuing him? What are his chances with the Chinese?’
A momentary silence fell over the table.
Cowcross belched. ‘George Fanshaw. Damn’ right. He’s the key to this puzzle. But I said it before and I will say it again—I don’t like the man. I know, I know. I introduced him into our group. But he’s a rat. No better than a rat that crept out of the mire.’
There was a general murmur of agreement round the table. George Fanshaw was not a likeable creature. The only dissenter was Sir Jeremy Riggs, and he kept his peace, musing on how ironic it was that these five should pass judgement on a man little different from themselves—uncouth, uneducated, rough upstarts in the world. But, then, were the shareholders and board members of the Honourable East India Company any better? No. The difference lay in the fact that the directors of the East India Company—and their families—had been involved longer in the lucrative oriental trade. They had had time to marry into the aristocracy, buy titles from the Crown, cultivate the patina of the gentry. Some day Thistle, Creddige, Potter, Kidley—even coarse Ben Cowcross—would take their own places within England’s titled society.
The meeting continued.
Part Three
THE CLASH
Chapter Twenty-One
A HOUSE GUEST
‘Have you received word, dear, from that nice Captain Horne?’
The question jolted Commodore Watson from the catnap he was enjoying on the verandah of Rose Cottage. Sunday afternoons in Bombay were sedentary. Following morning service at St Andrew’s, there was little to do but pay calls on other English families or sit at home behind one’s own white walls, hoping that no callers would pull the bell at the front gate and demand to be entertained.
Two months had passed since Adam Horne had left Bombay. In that time Commodore Watson had received word from Governor Pigot in Madras—via Governor Spencer in Bombay—that Horne had arrived at Fort St George and left again in pursuit of the China Flyer.
In the past weeks, Watson had recovered from his attack of coup de soleil. His health had begun to mend just in time for the arrival from London of his wife’s niece, Emily Harkness, for a year’s stay at Rose Cottage.
Having received no reply to her question, Mrs Watson repeated, ‘Have you heard, dear, from that nice young Captain Home? I’m planning a party for Emily and would like to begin compiling the guest list.’ She raised her head from her embroidery.
‘Horne? What about Horne?’ Watson stretched in his deep cushioned chair. Since his indisposition he had been sleeping far too much. Quiet Sundays at home did little to help the lingering lethargy he suffered as an after effect of his illness, but it was too hot to take a walk out-of-doors to keep alert, and pacing through the cramped cottage made him feel like a caged animal.
‘I want to invite Captain Horne to a party,’ Mrs Watson went on in a louder voice. She had noticed that something seemed to have gone out of her husband since his illness; nowadays he seldom paid attention to what she said and even the testy bark had all but disappeared from his voice. Had he not yet fully recovered? Or was this new apathy merely a sign that old age was taking its toll? The only consolation was that he had not returned to his gin-drinking.
Mrs Watson turned to her niece. ‘Captain Horne’s a very agreeable young man. A good family, too, I understand.’
Trying to involve her husband in the conversation, she called across the tiled verandah, ‘Merchant bankers, aren’t they, dear?’
Watson squinted at the book he had taken from the table in an attempt to stay awake. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.
‘Captain Horne’s father,’ repeated his wife. ‘Isn’t the father in banking?’
‘Horne walked away from the bank. Turned his back on a fortune.’
‘I’m asking because I want to reassure Emily that all young men who come out to India are not rogues and cut-throats.’
Watson glanced at the girl arranging a sheaf of drawings on the table in front of her. ‘Looking for an eligible match?’ he teased.
Twenty-year-old Emily Harkness was slim, with blonde hair softly curling around her oval face. In the past three weeks her complexion had become a soft brown, despite the protection of a parasol; she was proving to possess a surprising—almost masculine—ability to withstand the Indian heat.
Studying the pen-and-ink drawings spread out in front of her on the wicker table, Emily answered, ‘I have no immediate plans, sir, for marriage. Nor for any other contract restricting my freedom.’
‘Hmmmph. That does not surprise me,’ replied Watson, reflecting that the girl would be a real tomboy if she weren’t so damned pretty, and as content pottering around the house as she was when she was out exploring the city.
Emily Harkness was both a blessing and a worry to her aunt and uncle. She went sight-seeing with groups of other young ladies, but she was equally happy poking through marketplaces and bazaars with her sketch pad, as interested in local faces and costumes as she was in seeing Bombay’s ancient shrines.
‘Don’t plan any gatherings for me,’ she insisted as she lifted a drawing of Elephant Rock from the collection. ‘You know how I hate society.’
‘Don’t say you hate society, dear,’ scolded her aunt, troubled by the girl’s modern use of strong words.
‘Let us say, Aunt, that I don’t feel the need to meet people every hour of the day. I’m quite content with my own company.’
‘But, dearest.’ protested Mrs Watson, ‘you have travelled a great distance to broaden your outlook. Certainly that includes making new friends.’
‘I am making many new friends. The Truscotts. Hannah Starett. The Catchpole sisters.’
‘All young ladies,’ observed the diminutive Mrs Watson.
‘I dare say, Aunt. Most of the men I have met here seem to be interested in one thing and one thing only—marriage.’
Watson peered over the top of the leather-bound volume, more interested in the women’s conversation than he was in the subject of his book—the social consequences of billeting Caesar’s troops during the Gallic campaigns.
‘Adam Horne is certainly not interested in marriage,’ he contributed.
Emily Harkness crumpled her drawing of Elephant Rock and stuffed it into the pocket of her smock. ‘Then, perhaps, sir, I should meet this mysterious Captain Horne. Men with marriage in mind never say what they mean—until after the wedding.’
The Watsons exchanged glances.
Miss Harkness continued, ‘Yes, I do believe I should enjoy making the acquaintance of a man who might say what he means without fearing that he will frighten off
a potential helpmate.’
The girl had a mind of her own; that was as certain as her exceedingly pleasing appearance. Emily Harkness definitely enlivened a dull Sunday afternoon at Rose Cottage. But as for the advisability of introducing her to Adam Horne … Would these two headstrong people prove incompatible? Commodore Watson wondered. Or worse perhaps: would two social misfits like these merely reinforce the independent spirit in one another? Such a thing would be catastrophic for both man and woman.
Chapter Twenty-Two
THE IMPERIAL WAR JUNKS
Eighteen yellow oars rose and fell in silent precision, propelling a long, slim rowing-boat away from the wharf in front of Whampoa’s Inn of a Thousand Pearls, and moving through the floating vendors towards the China Flyer heeling at anchor in the afternoon wind. George Fanshaw sat rigidly in the stern, looking from the frigate lying directly in front of him to three Imperial war junks silhouetted against the far shore. He was paying two calls today: the first on his captain, Lothar Schiller; the second on the war junks which served the Imperial government as temporary prisons.
Twenty-four hours had passed since Fanshaw had spoken with Abutai, the Hoppo’s chief mandarin. In that time he had considered various courses of action and had decided on what he considered to be the safest, most foolproof way to secure the establishment of his new trading company in China—and ensure his own personal safety.
A hail rose aboard the China Flyer as Fanshaw’s narrow rowing-boat approached through the floating vendors. Lothar Schiller appeared at the side, shouting for his men to hurry and lower the ladder for their visitor.
‘I did not expect you until tomorrow, Mr Fanshaw,’ he greeted his employer at the port entry.
Fanshaw passed in front of Schiller impatiently fanning himself with his blue silk tricorn hat, as he ordered, ‘Let us speak alone.’
Schiller followed him to the foot of the quarter-deck ladder. ‘Bad news, Mr Fanshaw?’
Fanshaw spun round indignantly, spitting, ‘Did I not say the Bombay Marines were on our trail, Schiller?’
‘The East India Company?’
Fanshaw’s eyes moved to the three Imperial war junks across the harbour, but he held his tongue. Why tell Schiller more than he need know about the Bombay Marines and their whereabouts?
Guardedly he replied, ‘The Hoppo’s patrol captured the Bombay Marine two nights ago on the Pearl River. I learned it yesterday from the chief mandarin, Abutai.’
‘Does this change your plans, Mr Fanshaw?’ asked Schiller.
Fanshaw replied icily, ‘To the extent that I want you and the China Flyer out of Whampoa by nightfall. I can escape overland if events suuddenly turn against me. But I want the China Flyer free to sail for England when I give the order.’
Plans had indeed gone wrong for Fanshaw; Schiller could see it in his face as well as understand it from his words. Common sense told him, however, that close-lipped Fanshaw was not the man to confide many facts to him.
‘Shall I have trouble leaving here?’ he asked, looking around the harbour for patrol boats that might detain him. The only suspicious vessels were the three junks which had arrived yesterday and remained isolated offshore from the stilted pier houses.
Fanshaw stepped closer to Schiller. ‘Our cargo will provide you safe passage. The Hoppo accepted the cumshaw. Abutai agrees that you should deliver it in its entirety to the depot.’
‘The opium?’ asked Schiller, increasingly intrigued by Fanshaw’s air of mystery.
Fanshaw nodded, glancing at the idling crew, fearful of spies and eavesdroppers. ‘I’ve arranged for you to deliver the chests to Kam-Sing-Moon beyond the mouth of the Pearl River.’
‘I can sail back down to Macao?’
Producing a document from inside his frock-coat, Fanshaw explained, ‘Here’s your permission to sail. Take your time unloading the cargo. Wait for me off the island. I’ll be there one way or another by tomorrow night.’
‘Sir, there is one important matter we must first settle.’
Fanshaw pulled back indignantly. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The matter of pay.’
‘Pay?’
‘You said, sir, you would pay me in Whampoa.’
Fanshaw exploded. ‘Good God, Schiller, this is hardly the time or place to start badgering me about money. Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve been saying? There’s a new change of plan, man!’
Schiller raised his voice in turn. ‘When will you pay me?’
Glancing back at the surrounding crew, Fanshaw lowered his voice. ‘Wait till I see you at Kam-Sing-Moon,’ he promised.
Schiller stubbornly crossed both arms across his chest. ‘You do not pay me now, Mr Fanshaw, I do not sail from Whampoa.’
Fanshaw mopped the perspiration from his brow. ‘I certainly do not have the money on me now. Be sensible. Do you want to risk the Chinese seizing this ship, so that you will be stranded in China? Is that what you want?’
He was right. Schiller hated to admit it, but there was logic in Fanshaw’s words.
Determined to get his money, however, he raised his fist, threatening, ‘You do not pay me at that opium island, Mr Fanshaw, you will regret it. I promise you that. You will regret it very deeply,’
* * *
Fanshaw went on his way to pay his second call. The rowing-boat sped towards the three reed-sailed vessels, skimming more quickly over the dark, filmy water once the oarsmen were free of the clamouring sampan vendors. The boat slowed as it reached the second junk, Fanshaw calling in Chinese that he carried the Co-Hung’s permission to board the Imperial vessel.
Two sentinels in black cloaks emblazoned with a red dragon waited at the top of the rope ladder. Fanshaw produced a document and announced haughtily in faultless Chinese that he had come to speak to their English prisoner.
One of the sentinels called to a guard seated in a group on the junk’s high poop-deck. The man who came towards them wore a leather tunic and helmet and a large ring of keys dangling from a thick belt round his waist. He studied Fanshaw’s document and, satisfied as to its authenticity, beckoned him to follow, making for the cabin on the junk’s main deck.
The guard unlocked the low, iron-banded door and Fanshaw asked him to wait outside, since he wished to speak to the prisoner alone. Inside, he saw a lean man seated cross-legged in a pallet stretched beneath the low windows to one side of the door.
‘Adam Horne?’ he asked.
‘Whom do I have the honour of addressing?’ asked Horne, not rising from the pallet.
Fanshaw studied Horne. The Marine was confident and self-assured, handsome in a rugged, wind-burned, buccaneer manner. But his accent was educated, obviously the product of wealth and good breeding. Certainly no run-of-the-mill, rough-and-tumble Bombay Marine. Not the man Fanshaw had expected him to be.
‘Why have you come to China, Mr Horne?’ he demanded.
‘If you know my name, sir, you have apparently read my orders.’ Horne still wore the breeches and shirt he had grabbed when the hooded raiders had surprised him aboard the Huma.
‘Documents are easily forged, Mr Horne,’ Fanshaw reminded him, enjoying the power he held over a man born to the class to which he merely aspired.
Governor Pigot’s description of George Fanshaw fitted this pinched-faced, self-important, over-dressed Englishman. Horne was certain he was Fanshaw. He decided that the man must enjoy the favours of the Chinese Hoppo if he was able to visit him aboard this floating prison.
He challenged him. ‘I sailed from Fort St George on a mission for the East India Company and it is proceeding exactly as I expected.’
‘Indeed, Mr Horne, do your orders include being arrested and imprisoned?’
‘My orders, sir, are to find you.’
‘Me?’
‘George Fanshaw. Servant of the Honourable East India Company.’
Horne’s certainty amused Fanshaw. ‘If I am the man you claim you are looking for, Mr Horne, what do you propose to do now that you have
found me?’
‘You sail aboard the China Flyer, do you not, sir?’ Horne nodded towards the row of windows behind him, and the English frigate beyond.
‘From?’
‘Madras.’
‘Destination?’
‘Whampoa.’
‘Reason?’ Fanshaw appeared to be amused by this verbal fencing.
‘You have come to China, Mr Fanshaw, to secure a place on the Hoppo’s Privileged Trading List for a rival trading company.’
‘Rival to whom, Mr Horne?’
Horne was working on the theory he had developed since leaving Fort St George. ‘Sir, the only Britons chartered to trade with China are the Honourable East India Company.’
‘If I were here for such a reason, Mr Horne, why should I be sailing a Company ship?’
‘That, sir, is precisely the reason I am taking you back to Madras.’
Fanshaw laughed. ‘Ah, so you sail in convoy, Mr Horne. That, or you expect reinforcement soon to help you take the China Flyer.’
‘As you know from reading my orders, sir, the Huma sails alone.’
‘If you intend to take the China Flyer unassisted, Mr Horne, you are either a very able seaman or a fool.’
‘Perhaps I am both,’ said Horne, adding, ‘Like Lothar Schiller.’
Fanshaw’s eyes dulled with anger. ‘For a man who thinks he knows so much, Mr Horne, you know very little. Perhaps I should tell you how little you know.
‘First, let me inform you that your ship, your beloved Huma, has been taken down river to Kam-Sing-Moon. The Hoppo is unloading your cargo of opium at the storage depot there. But your cumshaw will buy you no privileges, Mr Horne, as Governor Pigot obviously intended. The Hoppo has decided you are to be moved to an Imperial prison—after your trial.’
He smiled triumphantly. ‘Perhaps it would be more fruitful to speculate about your own future, Mr Horne. You can prepare the defence you will give to the Hoppo’s council when you appear before them next week.’
