“Two hours to find scran,” warned Quinlan, who lost no time getting himself over the bulwark. The Indiaman’s hatches were off, and a continuous line of coolies brought cedarwood tea chests for loading; others were in the hold stowing, tomming down the cargo securely for the stormy trip home.
A man in breeches and shirtsleeves glanced at them curiously, his eyes following every move of the coolies. Quinlan nodded to him and crossed the deck to the precarious planks of the brow down to the jetty.
Kydd’s mind whirled at the impact on his senses—an unmistakable sickly stench from the vegetable plots, the charcoal smell of cooking fires and the sheer rich stink of land after months at sea. The flank of the central spine of the island was one long alley with shanty shops on both sides, each with its blank-faced proprietor in white gown, shaved head and slender pigtail to the waist. There was every kind of knickknack and curio.
“Keep together,” Quinlan muttered. He seemed to have directions, and strode forward purposefully. There were occasional European sailors, but they were of another world, the merchant marine, and were in loose, serviceable sea clothes that were as different from their own smart man-o’-war’s rig as they were from the Chinese. Some even wore the baggy petticoat breeches of a previous age.
At the natural boundary of a stream they turned right and soon were in much more congenial surroundings: notwithstanding the bamboo walls and matshed roof it was unmistakably a tavern. In fact, there were several—and more! They wasted no time and crowded into the first. The Cantonese pot-boy seemed to understand their needs and scurried away. Before they had chosen their rattan table and settled into the odd straight-backed chairs he was back, whisking foaming tankards before them.
“Well, stap me!” Stirk marveled. “Died ’n’ gone t’ heaven!” The pot-boy remained, standing quietly. His eyes were fathomless black buttons.
“Er, yair—anyone got some loot?”
Quinlan held up a Spanish silver dollar. “This makee two rounds, you savvy, John?” he said, making a twirling motion with his finger. The man glanced back, with considerable dignity, thought Kydd. Apparently the answer was an affirmative for he nodded and left soundlessly.
It was nectar, the first beer ashore. The taste was more watery than their English palates would have preferred, but it was fresh and went down very rapidly.
“Hey, John! Next round—chop-chop!”
As swiftly as the first, another round was before them, and they raised their tankards. “T’ the poor bastards back aboard, an’ workin’ their hearts out.”
Kydd raised his tankard, thinking of Renzi. He didn’t notice the men looming behind until one spoke. “An’ what are King’s men doin’ here, c’n I ask?” The speaker was bulky, unshaven, and there were several others with him.
“Yes, yer might ask, mate,” Stirk said mildly.
“Well?”
“Well, cully, we’re not the press-gang—but we could make an exception in your case,” he said, with a chuckle.
“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 toward 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 shorthanded 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 forever 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 toward 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 toward 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 eggshell-like teacup of transparent green tea, Jamesen explained further. “Trade is everything—we buy tea, they buy … not much. They think they’re the center 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 t
he 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 unrecognizable 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 toward 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 from some strange fruit.
They paced along slowly, deliberately ignoring the small barefoot boys who tagged on behind chanting, “Faan kwai! Hung motik 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 fetal 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’e on display at the scene of the crime until sunset, then they’e 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 downriver 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 civilization?” 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 façade 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 b
e 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 Camões 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.
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