They loaded Nandu down like a pack-pony and sent him trotting off to the Chun Qua Factory, while they took a stand-up repast of hot soup and noodles from an open-air vendor, and strolled the square. Most particularly that part of the square behind the French Factory.
"Now what the devil…?" Alan mused aloud as they saw some of the items being carted up to the factory from the docks and customs house on the quay. "Can you tell me what these are, sir?"
Alan had inquired of a man dressed as a European seaman.
"M'seur?" the man replied, turning to face them.
"Park vous I'Anglais, m'seur? Can you tell me…"
"Ah, mais out. Zose, m'seur? Ze shark feens," the man said.
"Well, now I've heard just about everything," Burgess griped.
"Whatever are they for?"
"Pour ze potage, m'seur," the sailor explained. "Pardon, j'sui Marcel Monnot. Notre ship La Malouine. Et vous?" After they had introduced themselves, Monnot went on. "Ze shark feen soup, m'seurs. Zese Chinetoque, zey manger zese potage… mak zem…" He could not think of the English word, so he rammed an expressive fist at them, grasping his arm at the elbow. "Pour ze old homme wiz ze fair jeune fille, n 'est-ce pas! Mak 'Iverge' formidable, ha ha!"
"Like oysters!" Burgess cried in delight. "For renewed vigor with the ladies. God, as many sharks as we saw on the voyage here, I wish we'd known of it. Do they pay dear for them, then?"
"Ah, mais oui, m'seur!" Monnot agreed heartily. "Un feen, zey pay trois, quatre livresl" he told them with an expansive Gallic shrug. "Vee 'ave beaucoup feen, mak beaucoup livres, hah! Bon!"
"Well, damme," Alan commented. "Merci, M'seur Monnot."
"Vee 'ave also ze ginseng, m'seurs. Vair good. Same, aussi."
"Monnot, allez vite! Revenir aux travaille!" some petty officer barked, and the man bowed his departure, leaving Chiswick and Lewrie to stroll among the boxes and crates as he went back to work.
"I never heard that ginseng was a restorative in the Caroli-nas," Burgess said. "Made a good, healthful tea, was all we used it for. Mother swears by it, but it's hard to find. Maybe I should buy her some and ship it home. Well, there were some slaves who said it was an aphrodisiac, but you couldn't put much stock in some of their tales."
"And furs," Alan pointed out.
"Oh, yes. Mister Twigg said the Chinese don't have many good furs. Have to come from Russia or somewhere. Ermine, sable, glutton, mink or such'll sell dear here in Canton. I met one of those Yankee Doodle skippers this morning. Said he'd been to the Nootka Sound on the Bering Sea. He was trading furs. Quite profitable, he told me."
"My, you have been busy this morning," Alan snickered.
"Them that had a little English," Burgess allowed with a shrug as they idled against a stack of crates to watch the coolies and the French crew unload a junk that had lightered their cargo up from Whampoa Reach. "Rest of it was way over my head. Never thought I'd have to learn anything more than a little Cherokee back home. I'm lucky I can savvy just enough Hindee so Nandu and my subadar don't cock their heads and look at me queer. I say… good pelts, those. That Yankee captain didn't have better."
"What do they sell for?" Alan asked idly, finding the spying business a dead bore as the hot afternoon wore on.
"He told me he'd get almost one hundred of their dollars for a pelt," Burgess informed him.
"Hmm, wonder what that is in real money?" Alan mused aloud.
"I think it's somewhere between five and six pounds sterling. But here's the profitable part, Alan. The Nootka Sound Indians'll swap you a prime pelt for one four-a-penny board nail!"
"S'truth!"
"Can you credit it? 'Course, you were among the Creeks and the Seminolee."
"Well, we weren't doing much trading. 'Cept for my wife."
"Your what?.
And on their way back to the Chun Qua Factory, Alan regaled Chiswick with the tale of impregnating the Cherokee slave-girl Rabbit and being forced to purchase her from her owner for a dragoon pistol, a cartouche pouch, a shirt and a pair of deer hides.
"And there you are, paying court to my sister Caroline, and you a married man," Burgess japed. "I should write and warn her how fickle your enthusiasms are!"
Chapter 4
Their supper that evening at the factory was another of those marvels to a palate ruined by ship's rations. Or by the bland-ness of English cooking, Alan thought, except in the rarest instances. Oh, there was lots of rice, but, like the supper at Sir Hugo's bungalow in Calcutta, it seemed that hundreds of dishes made their appearances as removes. Some fiery hot, some crunchy and only mildly spiced, some almost recognizable and some that could only be identified by comparing them to puppy-spew, or one of William Pitt's hairballs. The lone Chinese table-servant announced the name of each dish, with Wythy translating-pork, chicken, beef, lobster bits, shrimp, oil-fried omelets and such. Lewrie decided they could call 'em devil's turds, 'long as they kept them coming.
Wythy alone of their company ate with chopsticks in the native manner, and put away as much as two of them together with a frantic neatness. Not a wasted motion when he was at table.
"Ah!" Wythy said at last when the final dish, and the gigantic bowl of rice, had been removed. "Perfection from the soup to the nuts!"
"Speaking of soup, Mister Wythy," Alan asked, attention fixed on the port decanter that the servant placed by Twigg's elbow. "Do these Chinese really eat soups made out of bird's nests and shark fins?"
"Oh, aye they do. Daft on 'em, they are," Wythy rumbled with a laugh. "Bird's nests… well, that's the mandarin's style. Eat such exotic shite such's their Emperor's court can obtain. Like the old Romans. Lark's tongues, mouse cheeks an' such."
"To show off how wealthy they are," Twigg commented.
"The rarer the victuals, the better show they put on for their guests, to flaunt their wealth."
"An' ye'll have noted, no doubt, how most o' the really nabob-rich Chinese traders'r fatter'n Falstaff," Wythy added.
Alan hadn't noted any such thing, but he gave the comment a sage nod of agreement. Wythy had fed himself into such a good mood, and Alan wanted nothing to upset him. Wythy hadn't told him where the safer brothels were yet.
"Peasants in the countryside are one crop away from famine," Twigg said. "And it's short commons for most of 'em. Just take a look at the people who live on all those sampans we passed on the way up-river for comparison. Poor as Irish crofters, and about as starved, most of the time. It's a virtue to the Chinese to get rich, and set a table such as a duke could afford back home."
"Er… about the shark fins, though," Burgess pressed. "Does this soup really restore an old man's vigor?"
"Well, I'm nowhere near needin' restoration yet, sir," Wythy boomed with amusement like a thumped barrel, "but there's more wonders in this world'n ye could shake a stick at. I've heard tell it works. Mind ye, that was from Chun Qua himself. Who knows? Where'd ye hear o' shark fin soup?"
"Oh, there was a French mate on the customs dock this afternoon," Alan replied, finally getting his hands on the port and pouring himself a full bumper. "They were unloading bales of the damned things. Strung together like fish on twine. Must have had thousands, and getting three or four livres apiece for 'em, too, he told us."
"A French ship," Twigg commented, raising his eyebrows to Alan to start the decanter leftward down the table to his empty glass.
"Aye, sir."
"And what else did they land on the docks?" Twigg inquired.
"Furs, sir," Burgess supplied. " Nootka Sound pelts. Quite a lot of 'em. Uhm… bird's nests. All sorts of stuff. Right, Alan?"
"Well, most of it was crated or bundled. I did see the furs, and the shark fins, though," Alan allowed. "I'd have to take your word on the bird's nests, Burge. That, and the ginseng."
"Ginseng!" Twigg barked, and set the decanter down on the table with a loud thump. "Ginseng, d'you say, sir?"
"Oh, yes." Burgess bubbled on. "Their mate… what was his name, Mon-something… no matter.
Said they had ginseng aboard. I believe he said it's about as good as shark fins to aid old men in passion. Our old slaves back home in North Carolina said…"
"Mister Wythy," Twigg interrupted, almost shushing Chiswick to silence, "correct me if I err, but ginseng is primarily a Chinese herb, is it not, sir?"
"Aye, 'tis," Wythy agreed.
"But is there not another source in this world for ginseng?" Twigg pressed. "I speak of another member of the Araliaceae family, the Panax quinquefolius, which produces the same five leaves, scarlet berries and succulent root. And is not North America, the Colonies… former colonies, now… the only other known source of ginseng?"
"Ah ha," Wythy grinned slowly in confirmation.
'Tell me more about this ship, sirs," Twigg demanded.
"Well, she's the La Malouine, sir," Alan stated.
"Ah ha," Wythy said once more, maddeningly obtuse to them.
"Do you think she might be the Frog privateer we seek, sir?" Chiswick asked.
"She very well might be," Twigg replied, nodding grimly.
"Well, she stands out, compared to those ships we've snooped around so far," Wythy informed them. "Most of 'em seem fairly innocent, see. Sailin' outa Pondichery'r Chander-nargore. Isle of France, or all the way from L'Orient or Nantes on the French Biscay coast. May not signify, but…"
"Yes, but for several intriguing 'buts,' Tom," Twigg rasped.
"Such as, sir?" Alan inquired, by then totally mystified.
'To have furs, a ship must sail to the Bering Sea to trade in Nootka Sound," Twigg said, beginning to tick points off on his long, knobbly fingers. 'Then trade among the Sandwich Islands, Cook Isles, Otaheiti and all to get the bird's nest, sandal-wood and shark fins. But for even the smallest crew to sail that far and live among the Polynesians for the duration of that voyage, they would have to forego much cargo on the way outward for supplies to keep the hands fit. Now tell me, young sirs, were they landing anything else? Indian goods, perhaps?"
"Aye, sir. Cotton bales, brassware, spices. Crates of silver."
"Well, now, that's an extremely odd mix of cargo. Far out of the ordinary for most French Indiamen, or country ships," Twigg mused, tenting his fingers under his cadaverous chin and gazing at the ceiling. "And I need hardly tell a seafarer such as yourself the near impossibility of that, do I, Mister Lewrie?"
"Uhm," Lewrie commented, stalling for time and wondering what in hell Twigg was talking about. Twigg dropped his gaze from the rafters to Alan's face, like a tutor expecting him to recite.
"Have to go to Nootka Sound early in summer, late spring, sir," he began, grasping for ideas. All the plum wine he'd put down with supper didn't help that process. "That means they'd have to leave Pondichery or wherever even earlier, in the… oh!"
"Oh, indeed, sir," Twigg said, grinning a little.
"The Monsoon, the summer Monsoons are out of the sou'west as early as they'd have to leave," Alan continued. "And about the time they're changing from the winter nor'east winds. There's violent weather then. No one in his right mind would try that. And then they'd have to sail clear across the entire Pacific, maybe a three or four month voyage to be first in for the furs, as early as May, when the ice melts. And then to gather all the rest on the way back…"
"Maybe they have an arrangement with some o' the Polynesian islanders t' arrive an' pick up shark fins an' all on the way out, or don't have t' spend too much time on the way back," Wythy added. "So they might save a full month all told."
"Already loaded to the deck-heads, though, with cargo!" Lewrie beamed. "Where's the room for food, water, firewood?"
"Loaded with what?" Wythy snorted. "Cotton? Sure t' take fire if ye close it up too long. Get a seepage an' watch it swell like a hundred tons o' sponges an' break yer hull? By God, opium don't keep that well that long, either. Either lose yer ship, get marooned with the savages, or watch yer best cargo spoil on ye."
"They could leave here in March and go direct to Nootka Sound," Twigg prompted. "Or make a round voyage every two years, instead of the one, like some of those former Rebel skippers do."
"Then they would have to spend their time fighting the nor'east Monsoons east and north of Guinea," Alan said, remembering his Falconer's. "With the same storms when the winds shift out of the sou'east, about… six weeks later than the Indian Ocean, as I recall. It would be impossible to make much headway, tacking close-hauled into a nor'wester. And if they went directly from Macao to Nootka Sound, where'd they get all the Indian goods, then?"
"Excuse me, sirs, if a landsman sticks his oar into the water," Burgess chuckled, "but what if they go to India in March, thence to the Nootka Sound, riding the favorable winds. And only do the two-year round voyage?"
"Money, Burgess," Alan replied, smirking. "They ain't Navy. Who could afford to pay a crew for twice the work and only once the profit? And there is the matter of spoilage, like Mister Wythy said."
"Fascinating speculation, is it not, sirs?" Twigg said happily. "And finally, there is the matter of this ship's name. La Malouine. We may deduce that her master could possibly be a Breton. We may further imply that he is from St. Malo, on the northern Brittany coast. Who else would name a ship La Malouine'? Bretons have been pirates, privateersmen and ship-wreckers since before the times of Caesar. Ideally placed to play merry hell with Channel commerce, an activity in which they've indulged since the last Legions marched out of England and France. They're some of the best sailors France may boast of. As good as any Liverpool or Bristol privateer, and twice as bloody-handed."
"Bit obvious, though," Alan said in the long silence that followed. "I mean, the name of the ship. Too… I don't know."
"Pass me that bloody port, lad, there's a good feller," Wythy said, "while you cogitate on't."
'There's closer places to get bird's nests, spice, brass and shark fins, you know," Twigg told them. "A lot closer to Canton or the Bay of Bengal. The Malay pirates. Even from Mindanao. They hate sharks so much they go out of their way to kill them. Catch them and force spiny sea-urchins down their gullets so they'll take days to die a painful death. Make them suffer for every one of theirs the sharks take or mangle."
"Best lead we've turned up yet," Wythy summarized.
"Yes, Tom," Twigg agreed. "We must look into this La Malouine. Find out if she's Compagnie des Indies or a country ship. Where she's home-ported, where she's been seen the last year or so. Have any of us paid her any mind yet? Is she a tubby little merchantman, or is she a converted warship? Small crew, large crew. How well armed, who and what are her officers."
"How much opium she sold at Lintin Island, too, if she's payin' her way, same's us," Wythy stuck in. " 'Course, if she's the one we're lookin' for, ye may count on looted opium, an' pure profit."
"Damme, I wish I'd been on the customs dock this morning," Twigg rasped. "One sight of those shark fins, and that ginseng, and I'd have tumbled to 'em a lot sooner."
"Speaking of, sir, where would they get ginseng? Sail all the way to Boston for it?" Burgess inquired.
"The ginseng, aye, Mister Chiswick. I suspect there's a Yankee merchantman gone missing. We shall have to ask around among our dear divorced cousins. They may have over-reached themselves in that matter. Maybe they took it, maybe their native confederates took it and handed it over for arms, thinking it might be worth something. Either way, they've blown a hole in their cover. A small hole, but a hole nonetheless."
"And what may we do to help, sir?" Burgess asked, looking as tail-wagging eager as a fox-hound pup about to be let out with his first pack.
"Not a blessed thing," Twigg replied quickly, and with some affrontery. "You two leave this part of the business to them that won't give the game away. I'll not have these Frogs put on their guard by a mistake by some cunny-thumbed, cack-handed amateurs!"
"Oh, but ye've done grand 'nough, so far, lads," Wythy interceded. "We'd not know anythin' but fer yer observin', and bringin' up the subject of that ginseng. But remember, we're trying to pose as innocent
as the Frogs are. Yer not practiced at this. So ye go on with yer duties, and yer sight-seein', same's the French'd expect from ye. Do keep yer eyes peeled, though, on the sly. Don't go too sneakin'r actin' suspicious, but just idle about and take note."
"I see, sir," Burgess replied, still in a bit of a pet after Twigg's scornful dismissal of his services, no matter how Wythy had softened the blow.
"Circulate. Act the calf-headed cullys. But watch when ye may. Not a sharp watch, mind, but watch" Wythy concluded.
Chapter 5
They waited, and they watched.
In fact, once Telesto was totally unloaded and riding high in the water, there was very little else to do. Whampoa Reach was the place to idle from September to March. Their cargoes of tea were not in Canton for quick loading; they had to come down from the hinterland. What they had purchased were only sample packs of the year's pickings. The lacquerware, furniture and china had to be manufactured during the winter season, then loaded lot by lot. It took Chinese laborers time to weave nankeen cloth, silks, ribbon and fancy goods. Wallpapers had to be made first, then meticulously, and slowly, printed by Asian methods, or painted by artists by hand with their bamboo pens and brushes.
"Rope-Yarn Sunday, thank God," Alan muttered to himself as he emerged on the quarterdeck. It had rained during the night, and the masts, sails and rigging overhead dribbled fat, cool drops of water from aloft as if it rained still. There was a slight fog over the Pearl River and Whampoa Reach, a fog that amplified the creaking of the myriad of vessels as timbers and planking settled anew, as rigging slacked tension and the masts worked against themselves. As thigh-thick mooring cables groaned against the hawsehole timbers, and tinny watch-bells tinkled like a forest of windchimes, all set on chronometers that would never agree with each other.
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