China Flyer

by Porter Hill

  ‘You must consider your gift as a humble recognition for the honour to sail into Chinese waters.’

  ‘What about my arrangement with my colleagues in England?’

  ‘Do you travel half-way around the world, Mr Fanshaw,’ Abutai asked arrogantly, ‘to ask my advice on your private arrangements at home?’

  ‘No, of course not. But what about the East India Company? I can hardly go back to Madras—’

  Fanshaw stopped. He had taken precautions against a disappointment such as this. Remembering his foresight in sending Lothar Schiller down to Kam-Sing-Moon, he saw that he had to get out of this audience and away from Whampoa as quickly as possible.

  Summoning all the fawning Chinese etiquette he could muster, he bowed low, saying, ‘You must accept my cumshaw of opium as a modest token of esteem to Manchu greatness. I can only hope to return to Canton in the near future with another proposal to present to your esteemed eminence, lofty Abutai.’

  The Mandarin was not ready for Fanshaw to leave the chamber. ‘You again mention the matter of opium, Mr Fanshaw. In our last meeting, you also spoke of opium. You explained to me that you know of small merchants who are enjoying an illicit traffic in opium along China’s coast.’

  Alerted by the mandarin’s words, Fanshaw stuttered, ‘Sir … great Abutai … do not think I would deal with such men …’

  Abutai raised his hand for silence. ‘The Co-Hung is concerned that too many foreigners might know about such an illegal trade.’

  ‘You have my word, sir, that I shall not tell others.’

  ‘The Co-Hung needs more than your word, Mr Fanshaw.’

  ‘More?’ Fanshaw’s head beaded with nervous perspiration. ‘What do you mean?’

  Guards had appeared from behind gilt screens, flanking Fanshaw, their hands on the hilts of their curved swords.

  ‘You are to be held in Canton, Mr Fanshaw.’

  ‘Held?’

  ‘Your presence here will also assuage our displeasure over the disappearance of the Bombay Marines from Imperial custody.’

  ‘Adam Horne’s disappearance?’ Fanshaw did not understand.

  Abutai explained, ‘Captain Horne and his men escaped two nights ago. The anger which the Imperial throne would feel over their disappearance will be softened when they know that another Company man has replaced Adam Horne in prison.’

  ‘But I have nothing to do with Horne and his Bombay Marines,’ Fanshaw shouted, looking from the Mandarin to the guards. ‘The Company will admit as much!’

  ‘The Co-Hung indeed intends to inform the East India Company of our decision to hold you, sir.’ He motioned the guards to seize Fanshaw.

  ‘But I have men and a ship waiting for me. My command.’

  ‘Your ship will be sent back to Fort St George with word that we are detaining you in Canton for an indefinite period of time.’

  ‘But I have nothing to do with the East India Company. Nothing.’ Fanshaw was screaming.

  Abutai rose from the chair, ignoring Fanshaw’s cries.

  Trying to break loose from the guards’ grip, Fanshaw shouted, ‘You’ve been using me. That’s what you’ve been doing. You’ve been using me to learn what I know about illegal trade going on here. You’ve been using me!’

  Abutai departed from the chamber, his robes creating the slightest rustle of silk.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  THE THIRD CHOICE

  The first strike from the Huma’s cannon persuaded Schiller that he must not hesitate in returning fire. After a slow start, the China Flyer had weighed anchor and thankfully paid off, her topsails catching the strong breeze off the island. As she gathered way towards the open sea, the bows met the first rollers, spray bursting into feathery silver fans.

  On the island the cannon continued firing, but Schiller saw that the Huma was well out of the battery’s range. He did not understand, though, why the reed-sailed junks across the harbour had made no attempt to intercept the Marine frigate since she had broken from her shore cables. Did they consider themselves inferior in fire-power or manoeuvrability?

  Moving his spyglass from the Chinese junks, Schiller again studied the Huma, in relentless pursuit of the China Flyer, bearing down on her stern. Who was in command of the Marine Frigate? He thought he detected one or two European seamen among the Asian crew. Had the Chinese released Adam Horne from prison? But only an escapee would have to sneak aboard his own ship and break from shore cables.

  The idea of not knowing who was giving him chase amused Schiller. Whoever they were, he would give them a good run.

  If the wind held, he gauged that he would soon be free of Kam-Sing-Moon. Then he could tack and enjoy the advantage to return gun-fire.

  The anticipation of battle excited him, and the gathering speed was tonic to the dejection he had felt since the very beginning of this voyage. Nevertheless, deep within him was a nagging anxiety.

  The East India Company wanted George Fanshaw for stealing gold from Fort St George and commandeering the China Flyer from the Madras roads. Schiller believed that Fanshaw should indeed be apprehended for these crimes—and more. Apart from being a thief and a liar, he was a murderer.

  Should he, Schiller, remain loyal to such a man?

  Where was Fanshaw? He had ordered Schiller to Kam-Sing-Moon to be ready to escape if the Chinese turned against him. Was he on his way down river at this very moment?

  If Fanshaw fell into disfavour with the Chinese, where could he go? The East India Company would arrest him if he returned to Fort St George; without Chinese support, there would be no new trading company welcoming him back to England. There might also be a price on his head there, sponsored by the East India Company.

  Feeling the deck rise and fall beneath his boots, Schiller asked himself if he wanted to be on the run for the rest of his days with the likes of a man such as George Fanshaw, in command of a stolen ship. Would it be better to face the British authorities at this juncture, tell his honest version of the story and take the punishment owing to him for partaking in Fanshaw’s unlawful venture?

  A cry aloft cut through the sigh of the rigging.

  ‘Sail ho … sails to the west …’

  Schiller raised his spyglass and saw eight spine-sailed junks moving out from Macao—the replacement for the Kam-Sing-Moon watch.

  Astern, the Huma bore down on him.

  Schiller reviewed his choices.

  If the China Flyer proceeded west, she would sail directly into the Chinese who would undoubtedly return him to the protective custody of Macao. He might never again be able to leave China, or at least, would have to remain here longer than he wished.

  The second choice would be to lead the Huma farther to sea and engage her in battle until one of them was destroyed.

  The third choice was tempting, but was it sensible? The best for his future? Too much of a risk? He would be gambling on the kind of man the Huma’s captain was—if indeed it was the Bombay Marine in command of the Huma. There was no way of gauging his character with nothing but giant rollers crashing between them.

  Remembering that he had taken chances all his life, Schiller decided to risk the third choice: he would show his open gun ports to the Marines and see how quick they would be to fire.

  * * *

  ‘Are we going to chase Fanshaw all the way back to India?’ Babcock stood at his post near Horne on the quarterdeck.

  ‘We don’t know if it’s Fanshaw.’

  ‘Who’s in command?’

  ‘I would guess the German. Lothar Schiller. Fanshaw’s probably still up-river in Whampoa.’

  ‘What you got in mind?’

  ‘The question, Babcock, is what Mr Schiller has in mind, if indeed that is whom we are pursuing.’

  As the main topsail cracked in a strong gust pushing off the island, Jud hailed above the cry of the rigging.

  Horne snapped open his spyglass and studied the western horizon. ‘Manchu war junks.’

  He looked back at the China Flyer b
eyond the harbour mouth.

  ‘Is the German turning to the Chinese for help?’ asked Babcock.

  Horne steadied the glass to his eye. ‘No sign yet that he is.’

  ‘Are the Chinese going to follow him?’

  Horne looked back to the war junks. ‘No. So far they’re keeping formation. They’re awkward in the open sea with European ships, and they know it.’

  ‘So what do we do, Horne? Get set for a long chase?’ asked Babcock.

  Horne did not reply; he was studying the China Flyer changing course.

  ‘She’s going to try to go about—’ he began and stopped.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Babcock, turning to Horne.

  ‘She’s opened her gun-ports.’

  ‘Now’s your chance to blast away,’ goaded Babcock.

  Horne hesitated. Why had the German not tried a ranging shot?

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ asked Babcock. ‘You’ve got it clear and wide.’

  Horne studied the distant frigate. The ports were open but no guns were run out. What was Schiller doing?

  ‘What you waiting for?’ Babcock asked a second time.

  Horne could not explain how he felt. The open gun-ports might be a sign, some kind of invitation or test: Schiller might want to see whether the Huma would rush an attack or hesitate. If the Huma held back, Schiller would know that fair treatment awaited him and his crew if he surrendered …

  Seeing a flutter aboard the distant ship, Horne raised his spyglass to verify his suspicion. Smiling, he saw that, yes, a white flag of truce was being run up as the China Flyer changed course yet again to sail south from Kam-Sing-Moon.

  Chapter Thirty

  THE NEW MARINE

  Mrs Watson cornered her husband at their Saturday evening party for her niece and warned, ‘Don’t you dare speak to Captain Horne tonight about Company matters. Allow him time to talk to Emily.’

  Commodore Watson seemed uncomfortable with the guests milling through Rose Cottage’s small parlour and out onto the verandah overlooking the garden. Mopping his damp forehead with a linen handkerchief, he answered, ‘A man like Adam Horne has little to talk about but duty, my dear.’

  ‘You mean you’re the one who prefers talking Company business,’ disagreed Mrs Watson. The diminutive woman worried that the social gathering might unduly tax her husband’s strength. Four months had passed since his worrying illness, but he still had not totally recovered from his faintness and palpitations.

  Gulping a cup of fruit punch, Watson smacked his lips, assuring his wife, ‘Company matters must take some precedence. I’ve yet to hear details about Horne’s mission to China. I know only that Governor Pigot awarded him and his crew the prize money for bringing the China Flyer back to Madras. Pigot writes that Horne’s quite a hero now around Fort St George. The Company’s finally starting to recognise him as something other than a down-at-the-heel buccaneer.’

  ‘I’m certain Captain Horne deserves all the approbation he receives. You can hear everything from him tomorrow at Bombay Castle. Tonight let the good captain and his men enjoy themselves. I was fearful I might have to postpone the party yet another week.’ She glanced approvingly across the room at Horne talking to Emily Harkness in a far corner. ‘I did so want those two young people to meet.’

  Watson looked from Horne and his wife’s niece to the other guests crowding the parlour, mostly East India Company employees and their wives, with a few military and church figures intermixed in the Saturday soirée.

  ‘Too many people in this room,’ he complained, taking a longer sip of the brightly coloured fruit cup.

  The sight of her husband enjoying the pink punch made Mrs Watson wonder if he had laced her family recipe with gin. Seeing the perspiration beading his forehead, she suggested, ‘Why don’t you go outside into the fresh air, my dear? Talk to the nice young men Captain Horne brought with him to the party.’

  ‘A sorry lot those five men are.’

  ‘Don’t scold. When Captain Horne said he didn’t want to abandon his men on their first night in Bombay I insisted he bring them with him this evening.’

  She lowered her voice. ‘There are more than five men. Captain Horne brought seven guests with him. There’s that tall German gentleman, Mr Schiller, and that short, roly-poly Chinese interpreter, Mr Gilbert.’

  Raising her fan, she explained sotto voce, ‘I understand, too, from your secretary, dear, that one of those two men is a candidate for the Bombay Marine—’

  Mrs Watson stopped. She snapped shut her lace fan, her liquid blue eyes dancing with sudden amusement. ‘How dreadful I am!’ she exclaimed. ‘Listen to me! I scold you about discussing Company affairs at Emily’s party and here I am talking about—’ She popped open the fan. ‘—the Bombay Marine.’

  ‘Why not? You’re bound to have a little salt water in your veins after all these years.’

  ‘And perfectly lovely years they’ve been, too,’ she replied affectionately. ‘I wouldn’t trade them for any others.’

  Watson pretended not to notice his wife’s sentimental remark. Instead, he raised his big head, eyelids half-lowered, and surveyed the crowded parlour, taking a longer, more fortifying gulp of the rose-red cup.

  * * *

  The air was cooler on the verandah but Groot and Babcock were as uncomfortable there as they had been inside the parlour of Rose Cottage.

  ‘I should have said no to this party,’ Babcock complained.

  ‘It’s good to mix with people,’ disagreed Groot. ‘A man too much at sea starts forgetting he belongs to the human race.’

  ‘These fancy people have nothing to do with me.’ Babcock glanced sideways at a short woman hanging on the arm of a vicar, listening solicitously to his every word. ‘I have more fun talking to Monkey.’

  The mention of Babcock’s pet monkey reminded Groot of a matter he had yet to resolve with the American. ‘There’s something I wanted to mention to you, Babcock. Don’t get angry … but … well …’

  ‘Stop beating about the bush. What is it?’

  ‘Sleeping. Every night you … well … your monkey…’

  Babcock turned, his eyes narrowing as he demanded, ‘What about Monkey?’

  ‘He keeps me awake and—’

  ‘Hell, Groot, we’ve been away for four months. You haven’t been near Monkey.’

  ‘That’s the other problem,’ Groot hedged.

  ‘What other problem?’

  ‘You … you talk in your sleep, Babcock.’

  ‘I do?’ He pulled his red ear. ‘What do I say?’

  ‘It’s not so much “say” as … shout … or yell …’

  Babcock’s aggression continued to wane. ‘I … do?’

  ‘You do. I was wondering if there’s something troubling you.’

  Lowering his voice, Babcock looked guardedly around him, asking, ‘What do I yell, Groot? Is it, you know, very … personal?’

  ‘It’s about your Pa.’

  ‘I talk about my old man?’

  Groot nodded. ‘Yah. You tell him not to hit you. Every night you shout out, “Don’t hit me, Pa … Don’t hit me”.’

  Babcock’s face blanched. He remembered his nightmares about fighting with his father, how his father turned into Horne in the dreams, how he was unable to hit Horne, calling him ‘Pa’.

  His head down, he mumbled, ‘Don’t mention this to nobody, Groot. I’d appreciate that.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Groot quickly assured him.

  Pulling on his ear, Babcock drawled, ‘As for Monkey keeping you awake, well, I’ve been thinking about making a little outside cage for him anyway … at least for nights … the pesky devil’s been bothering me, too …’

  He looked beseechingly at Groot, ‘Please don’t mention nothing to nobody? About me calling out to Pa.’

  * * *

  Jud and Kiro were standing at the other end of the verandah, cowering in the shadows made by the paper lanterns strung along the overhanging eaves. Jud notic
ed the blank smile on Kiro’s face and asked, ‘What are you thinking about, my friend? You look as if you are a thousand miles away from here.’

  ‘Friends. Families.’ Kiro’s shrug was lifeless, unlike his usual aggressiveness on the gun-deck.

  ‘Are you missing yours?’

  ‘I never had a family.’

  ‘Do you think you ever will?’ asked Jud, remembering how he took his own wife and son everywhere with him—in the breeze, in his songs, inside his head.

  Kiro considered the question. ‘The friends I have take the place of family. Horne and all you.’

  Jud grinned. ‘I think we’re going to get one more brother, and very soon.’

  Kiro’s attentiveness returned. ‘Do you really think Horne’s going to make him a Marine?’

  They turned and looked at the new candidate through the parlour window.

  * * *

  Jingee moved impatiently from one foot to the other beside Cheng-So Gilbert who was talking to the small group gathered around him. Gilbert was explaining that the eleven languages he spoke did not include the seventy-eight Chinese dialects he also had at his command.

  Jingee groaned inwardly. Did he have to hear this story again?

  A tall woman in a grey silk gown asked, ‘How do you plan your future with such extensive gifts, Mr Gilbert?’

  Jingee held his breath as he waited for Cheng-So Gilbert’s reply. It had been no secret aboard the Huma that Horne was considering recruiting a new Marine into his special squadron. Granted, Cheng-So Gilbert had been helpful in the escape from Whampoa, but was being able to imitate the warble of Chinese waterfowl qualification enough to become a Bombay Marine?

  A half-smile lighting his moon face, Cheng-So Gilbert answered, ‘Captain Horne is helping me to achieve my lifelong ambition. You see, I recently had the privilege of serving Captain Horne and his Marines …’

  Jingee felt the earth begin to open beneath his feet.

  ‘… and Captain Horne has generously promised to help me secure passage on the first Indiaman sailing for England,’ went on Gilbert, ‘as well as to provide me with introductions to find employment in London. To work in England has always been my dream.’