China

by Edward Rutherfurd

  Shi-Rong thought for a moment and chose his words carefully. “Commissioner Lin was clear that Elliot has proved himself to be a pirate—and therefore should be treated as such.”

  The admiral nodded, then fell silent. Looking through his telescope again, Shi-Rong could now see that the ship in the distance was flying a British ensign. He continued to follow its progress. “That’s interesting,” he muttered. After a while, he turned to the admiral.

  “There’s a British merchant ship approaching, Lord. But it’s not heading for the other merchantmen. I think it’s heading straight for the Bogue.” He handed the admiral his telescope.

  Guan gazed for some time. “You’re right. So, yet another ship from Britain is ready to respect the law and sign the bond.”

  And Shi-Rong was just about to agree when suddenly a puff of smoke was seen from the Volage, followed by a distant roar.

  “Did you see that?” he exclaimed. “Elliot just put a shot across the merchant’s bow.” He gazed in astonishment. “The merchant’s turning back.”

  “Good.” Guan gave a sharp nod. “If that isn’t the act of a pirate, then I don’t know what is.” He looked at Shi-Rong for confirmation.

  “Elliot is a pirate, Lord. He just proved it.”

  * * *

  —

  They had dropped anchor at their carefully chosen station when the cutter reappeared. As before, it contained the young officer and Van Buskirk. Shi-Rong moved to the side, with Mr. Singapore.

  The messengers in the boat below didn’t even ask to come aboard and ignored Mr. Singapore entirely. Van Buskirk called up to Shi-Rong in Chinese. “Captain Smith requires that you move away directly. You are threatening British merchant vessels.”

  “We have done nothing,” Shi-Rong replied.

  “Will you move?”

  “No.”

  Moments later, the oarsmen pulled away, back to the Volage.

  Half an hour passed. Neither side took any action. Midday was approaching.

  “As I thought,” said the admiral. “They are weak. They are weak.”

  But at noon the British warships began to advance. And the admiral gave the order that his line of ships should come out to meet them.

  * * *

  —

  There was nothing much to fear. As the Volage, followed by the Hyacinth, began to run up the Chinese line, Shi-Rong couldn’t imagine they’d get far. Two barbarian ships against sixteen war junks, not counting the fire ships.

  The admiral’s war junk was larger than the rest. Its broad decks carried six cannon on each side; nearly two hundred mariners, armed to the teeth, waited there also. Above them, from the high deck at the stern, Shi-Rong and the admiral had a good view up and down the line of ships in each direction.

  As the Volage came level with the first war junk, it was met with fire from the Chinese cannon, one bang after another, aimed at its sails and rigging. Then a huge volley of arrows flew like a swarm of flies into the sky and rained down upon the British decks.

  The Volage was moving through the water faster than Shi-Rong expected. Evidently the cannonballs had not done enough to slow her down. Through his telescope, he tried to see the casualties from the volley of arrows. But although the Volage was going into battle, it seemed that her decks were nearly bare of troops. How did they propose to grapple and board?

  Then the Volage fired a broadside.

  Shi-Rong had never seen a British Navy broadside. It was nothing like the firing of individual cannon from a Chinese war junk. The whole side of the British vessel erupted with a flash, a cloud of smoke, and a mighty roar like a thunderclap, as a dozen cannon fired in perfect unison. The guns were not aimed at the Chinese rigging or at the decks, but at the body of the ship and at her bowels, near the waterline.

  Even from where he was, he could hear the crash as the Chinese vessel’s sides were smashed open and the screams of men torn to shreds by a typhoon of wooden splinters. As he stared in horror, smoke began to issue from the shattered junk.

  The Volage had moved on; she left the next Chinese vessel, a fire ship, to the Hyacinth, who came in to deliver a smaller but perfectly directed broadside at the fire ship’s waterline. This time the thunderous crash was followed by a strange silence, during which the fire ship seemed to shudder. Then she began to list. She was foundering.

  “She will sink,” said the admiral impassively.

  Shi-Rong followed the Volage. She was still coming on rapidly, drawing opposite a war junk only a short way downstream of the admiral’s flagship. The Chinese ship fired three shots at the Volage’s rigging and damaged one of the sails. Yet the British ship came on regardless. The frigate was almost exactly opposite the war junk now. Could the British gunners have reloaded yet? The answer came moments later, as the Volage emitted another mighty broadside, with a huge roar.

  And then, just for an instant, he thought that the world had come to an end.

  The flash was so great it seemed to fill the sky with fire; the bang was deafening. Something, he scarcely knew what, hit him in the chest like a wave and almost knocked him down. The men on the deck below him suddenly turned black against the curtain of flame. Before his eyes, the war junk ahead was exploding like a bursting barrel. Smoke billowed out. Spars, shards, lumps of flesh, began to fall out of the sky and rain down upon the deck.

  In the unearthly glare, the admiral’s face looked like a fierce Chinese mask. “Gunpowder,” he growled. “They hit a magazine.” He turned to Shi-Rong. “Come with me.”

  As they descended onto the main deck, Shi-Rong could see that the mariners were shocked into silence by the explosion. To see men killed in battle was one thing, but to see an entire ship and all the men it carried explode into nothingness before your eyes was another.

  “The barbarians got lucky once,” the admiral shouted. “Now we’ll teach them a lesson.” To the gunners he called out: “Do not aim for the rigging. Aim for the body of the ship. Destroy their guns.” And he placed himself in front of the main mast in the center of the deck, to put heart into his men. To Shi-Rong he said: “Go to the first cannon and make sure they aim at the sides. If the first gun gets it right, the others may follow.”

  The flagship had a dozen cannon, more than any of the other war junks. But that was still only six on each side, just half the firepower of the frigate. Every shot had to count.

  The gunners didn’t seem to resent Shi-Rong. They tried their best. “We always aim at the rigging,” one of them said apologetically. Indeed, they had some difficulty in positioning the cannon to fire at a lower trajectory. But as the prow of the Volage came level, they did get off a shot—and knocked off her figurehead. The gun crew let out a cheer. Shi-Rong looked back at the admiral, hoping he had seen. The next Chinese cannon hit the frigate’s side. The third crew failed to obey the order and fired high. Shi-Rong wasn’t sure where the other three shots went.

  And now the British frigate was exactly level. Her length matched the flagship’s. She had entered a gentle upward roll, as though she were taking a breath, and now the line of cannon descended, and her guns roared.

  The admiral’s war junk was stoutly built. But her sides were not made to receive a battering like this. Shi-Rong felt the whole vessel shudder as a dozen cannonballs struck her just above the waterline. He saw the British ship’s quarterdeck passing. A double bang from two of the smaller guns mounted there was followed by a huge crack as one of the cannonballs smashed into the main mast, just above the admiral. He ran across to make sure the great man was safe, only to find Admiral Guan, with a splinter wound in his arm that he ignored, coolly assessing the damage.

  “The mast’s only a little damaged,” he remarked. “It’ll hold. I saw you hit the British ship.” He gave Shi-Rong an approving nod. “The real question,” he added quietly, “is how badly we’re holed, and how much water we’re taking in.�
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  As if in answer, the big war junk gave a slight but perceptible list towards the side where she’d been holed. The admiral pursed his lips. And he might have gone to inspect the damage himself if just then the Hyacinth had not appeared.

  Seen from the British vessel, Shi-Rong realized, the exposed deck full of men presented a tempting target. After the shock they’d just received, the flagship’s gunners had hardly started to reload. The admiral and his crew could only wait, helplessly. The Hyacinth was coming in close. Shi-Rong saw to his horror that the guns were not pointing at the belly of the ship, but at the deck. One of the guns was pointing straight at him. He saw the flash and hurled himself to the deck as a sound like a thunderclap burst out. A moment later, the screams began. For the Hyacinth hadn’t fired cannonballs. It had fired grapeshot.

  Grape: a canvas bag tightly filled with lead or iron balls, each ball the size of a grape. Fired by the navy at close range. The balls fanned out at once. Any sail, spar, or rigging in the grapeshot’s path was torn to shreds. Also humans.

  From his lying position, Shi-Rong raised his head to look around. The carnage was terrible. He saw men cut in half. There were probably thirty men down, writhing in agony on the deck. The lucky ones were already dead.

  He caught sight of Mr. Singapore. The interpreter was tottering by the edge of the deck, one hand gripping the rigging. The other arm had been almost completely torn off and dangled loosely from his shoulder, which was spouting blood. He stared openmouthed towards Shi-Rong with a look of strange sadness before he fell over the side of the ship into the sea.

  Admiral Guan was still standing by the big mast, immovable as a statue.

  And then Shi-Rong felt ashamed. He hadn’t meant to throw himself down on the deck. It had happened without his even thinking. A survival instinct. But the admiral had not moved at all, and he was surveying the awful scene now with a stoic face.

  Had the admiral seen him? Did he think him a coward? Had he disgraced himself, his family, shamed his father? Better he should have died than that. In agony of mind, he struggled up and found the admiral watching him calmly.

  “I am sorry, Lord…” he began, but Guan cut him short.

  “Are you wounded?”

  “No, Lord.”

  “Good. Stand by me.”

  * * *

  —

  And that was all the admiral said to him. As the two British ships continued up the line, their tactics remained the same, and there was nothing the Chinese crews could do about it. All hope of closing and grappling was gone. The British frigate was not a fortress full of men, but a floating gun battery; and the British Navy gunners were the best in the business. After the shock of seeing the huge explosion so early on, the men on the war junks realized that they were sitting targets. They loosed their arrows and fired their few guns, but always high at the rigging, for that was how they had been trained. And if many dived into the water to save their lives, it was hard to blame them.

  But then, having reached the end of the line, the Volage and the Hyacinth came about and gave the gunners on the other side of their vessels some action. The Hyacinth, being smaller and nimbler, weaved her way up the line again, blasting the Chinese ships at point-blank range and sinking several of them.

  Twice more the admiral’s flagship came under fire, once with cannon at the waterline, once with grapeshot to the deck. Each time Shi-Rong gritted his teeth, braced himself, and, though all color drained from his face, stood fast beside the admiral. At least, he reasoned, if I am to die, they can tell my father that I died standing firm, beside Admiral Guan himself. And his only fear was that the admiral might also be killed, and no witnesses survive to tell the tale.

  At the end of this second run, the British ships did not return, but sailed away down the gulf towards Macao, while the admiral, his flagship almost foundering, led his remaining vessels back to their former anchorage.

  By late afternoon Shi-Rong, bearing a note from the admiral, was being conveyed by Nio and his oarsmen upriver to Commissioner Lin.

  * * *

  —

  “The question is,” Lin said to him that night as he sat at his writing table, “what exactly can I say to the emperor?” He gave Shi-Rong a cautious glance. “The report from the admiral is very brief, but he says that you will be able to give me a full and accurate account.”

  “Yes, Excellency,” said Shi-Rong, “I can.”

  It took him some time to recount all that he saw. And if he was careful to select the most promising information, he said nothing that was not true.

  “So, to summarize,” Lin said, going through the list at the end, “Elliot refused yet again to sign the bond. Not only that, but he shot across the bow of a British ship that was coming, in a proper and lawful manner, to sign the bond and proceed to Whampoa.”

  “Thus proving that he is a pirate.”

  “Indeed. The admiral did not attack the pirates unprovoked. They attacked him. Their gun ships are formidable—this must be admitted—and they damaged some of our war junks. One junk was blown up.”

  “A lucky shot from the pirates, Excellency. They happened to hit a magazine. It was a huge explosion, but the admiral and his men did not flinch and continued to fire.”

  “We may say that throughout the engagement our men fought bravely, and that the admiral conducted himself with the utmost skill and coolness.”

  “There is no question, Excellency. I saw it all. I was at his side.”

  “Not only this, but our ships fired back with success, and even knocked the figurehead off one of the pirate vessels.”

  “Correct.” Shi-Rong longed to say that it was he himself who accomplished this, but calculated that it would be even better if, in due course, Commissioner Lin were to learn it from the admiral himself.

  “After this, the barbarians retreated down the gulf.”

  “They did, Excellency. They seemed to be heading first for Macao.”

  “I think that will do.” Lin looked up at him approvingly. “By the way, the admiral says that you were most helpful to him, and that you are to be commended.”

  “I thank him, Excellency.” Shi-Rong bowed deeply. Might this mean that his name would go in the report to the emperor himself? Perhaps. But he knew he mustn’t ask.

  “I think this means war.” Lin frowned. “The barbarian ships are fearsome.”

  “They fight in a different way, Excellency. They rely on their guns, and they carry many more of them.”

  Lin was silent for a few moments. “Well,” he said finally, “they’ll never get past the forts.”

  Shi-Rong slept well that night. Whatever the terrors of the day and the weakness of the Chinese navy they had exposed, he had survived. And it surely had been good for his career.

  The next morning, Lin told him to take a message across to the admiral. So he went to summon Nio to bring him a boat. But he couldn’t find the young fellow. He searched all over the fort. There was no sign of him. Somehow, in the night, Nio had disappeared.

  * * *

  ◦

  Read arrived in Hong Kong Harbour the day after Elliot. “I think you British are safe out here,” he told Tully and Trader. “Lin won’t risk a fight with you at sea. But I don’t believe he’ll ever let you into Canton again. Joker and the Hong merchants think it has to end in war.” He also brought a piece of good news. “There’s a Baltimore clipper sailing from Macao direct to London in three days. The captain’s promised me to take all our tea.”

  “Excellent.” Tully thanked him. “I’ll send a letter to my father with her.”

  Read had a short private conversation with Tully after this, but he didn’t dine on the ship, because he wanted to return to Macao at once. Just before leaving, however, he shook Trader by the hand. “We’ll keep in touch, my friend,” he said. “I wish you well.”

 
It seemed an odd thing to say, and Trader wondered if it meant the American was going away on his travels again. But as Read was in a hurry, he contented himself with sending greetings to Mrs. Willems. “And to Marissa, of course.”

  “I’m sending you to Calcutta for a while,” Tully announced the following afternoon. “Not much happening here. No point your being cooped up on board for days on end. Stretch your legs for a bit. Work with my brother. Learn more about his side of the business. There’s a ship leaving here in two days.”

  The prospect of some normal life on land was certainly tempting, but Trader felt guilty about the older man. “Perhaps you should go,” he suggested.

  “Don’t like Calcutta,” said Tully. It might have been true.

  April 1840

  They came barreling up the drive to the bungalow in a two-wheeled gig—a tumtum, as they called it in India—Charlie holding the reins, with John perched precariously beside him.

  “You idiots!” Aunt Harriet cried. “You’re lucky you didn’t overturn.”

  Trader laughed. “Especially with Charlie driving.”

  “Well, you’d better come in for tea,” Aunt Harriet declared.

  * * *

  —

  After tea, while Trader chatted with her husband, Aunt Harriet and Charlie went into the sitting room.

  “I’ve grown quite fond of young Trader during these last few months he’s been back,” Aunt Harriet remarked. “But he looks a bit pale and thin. Peaky.”

  “This opium business is taking a toll on him.”

  “He’s not ruined, is he?”

  “I don’t think so. But it’s bad. Even if the government compensates the opium merchants, it’ll be a long wait.”

  “Is he still interested in that Lomond girl? She’s not taken.”

  “He’ll have to start making his fortune before he can pay his addresses there.”

  “He strikes me as a bit of a loner. Is he selfish?”