Nobody’s Child

by Andrew Wareham

  It seemed rational.

  “Why have so many caught alight, Jerry?”

  “Ill-discipline, probably, Giles. They will have powder charges on deck for their cannon, and slowmatch. They may not use made-up cartridges as we do, in which case they will scoop loose powder from the barrel to load the guns.”

  It seemed a crazy way of doing things to me.

  “Fatalism, perhaps, Giles? A belief in, what do they call it? ‘Joss’, that’s it – luck or fate – if it will happen, it will despite anything you do. I don’t know, not for sure. Perhaps they were still cooking dinner. Many a reason for fire on a wooden ship.”

  It was the greatest fear of all seamen, being given the choice between burning or drowning.

  I saw no sign that the main fleet was about to come down on us.

  “Stand the men down, do you think, Jerry?”

  “Ask the captain, Giles.”

  Captain Marker was of the opinion that the men could go to three watches, four hours on and eight off overnight. Master Gunner was less sanguine.

  “Gun crews to sleep at their pieces, sir? I shall be the more happy if so be they are there, sir.”

  “You think so, Master Gunner? Then belay my last order. Giles, your people may spend four hours on watch followed by four lying down on deck, weapons to hand. Only for the one night, for we shall be inshore soon after first light.”

  I passed the word to Maneater and Jamadar Rao. To my surprise, both agreed the order to be wise.

  “There is a thing called ‘face’, Master Giles, or so I am told,” Jamadar Rao informed me. “The Navy has humiliated the Chinese pirate leader. He has made an attack and has been dismissed with contempt, all of his junks lost and nothing achieved. If he lays down in supine fashion after such a defeat, his own men will see him as weak and womanly. They will kill him – in a possibly inventive fashion.”

  What that meant I did not know at the time. My later contacts with China made me aware that they could be most ingenious in devising means of execution.

  Never did quite work out why – dead is dead and a few extra minutes of dying don’t make a great deal of difference, or so it seems to me. No matter!

  “So, Jamadar Rao, you believe that he must take some action tonight… He has come for us and he will know Jenny Dawes by name and description… Do you think he will have a bring-‘em-near glass?”

  “The Chinese have many and large celestial telescopes, Master Giles. I do not doubt that they will have powerful telescopes on some at least of their junks.”

  I digested the information, scratching my head the while. Most undignified to firk at one’s backside, I have always thought, but there is no doubt that scratching stimulates the mental processes. Funny how human beings work, ain’t it?

  “Man the swivels all night, slow match lit and concealed down low. Load the cannonades but keep them inboard, by the wheel, to shoot along the deck to the bows. All the men on deck to be held at the stern. Will that work, Maneater, Jamadar Rao?”

  It would not, they feared. While it was an excellent idea, and the grape would destroy boarders who had reached the waist, it would also rip the rigging to shreds. It would do no favours to the bulwarks and forecastle as well. Best to keep the guns pointed outboard, they believed.

  It was a novel idea, but that did not make it a good one. I accepted the voices of experience.

  “Where do we place the men, for the best?”

  “Stern and forecastle, Master Giles, firing into the waist.”

  “The waist to be our killing ground, sir. Guns to target the boats – sampans in fact – and the pistols and muskets to do their work on the men who come aboard.”

  The two men were firm in their shared opinion.

  “You know more than me, I must admit. What about light? We will hardly be able to see what is happening.”

  “Blue lights, sir. The Bengal Fire, as they are known. Master Gunner may well have such in his well-equipped domain.”

  Chapter Ten

  Nobody’s Child Series

  Nobody’s Child

  The convoy headed into the great waterway leading into Canton – the estuary of the Pearl River, greater than that of the Thames by some amount - and the Whampoa anchorage beyond which foreign ships were not permitted entry. The pirate fleet hovered well out of gun range, not so far from the first of those islands we call the Ladrones, or Islands of the Thieves; I say we because the Chinese have their own and far older names. They held the wind gage and were able to choose whether to attack. ‘When’ was a more sensible term, for they had to have a reason for staying where they were; they were not an admiring audience, watching their masters sail inexorably by.

  It was impossible to tell if the fleet was manoeuvring because of the way the junks huddled together. They did not form up in rows and columns like a European navy would, but simply fell into clusters that wandered along a course vaguely conforming to that of their admiral, or king, if you preferred. I wondered if each cluster represented a clan or a region or a particular port or island but received no answer – we knew too little about the Chinese.

  Jerry was unconcerned.

  “Never had the need to understand China, Giles. Good enough just to take money from them. They supply tea and silk, primarily. We give opium and silver in exchange.”

  That was the first time that opium had actually been specified in my presence. I was shocked, being, as I may have mentioned, still young then.

  “Is it not harmful, toxic stuff, opium, Jerry?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yet we sell it to the Chinese?”

  “They buy it from us, Giles. We are one half to blame. They are the other half. I cannot remember ever seeing a trader light a pipe and force a Chinaman to smoke it.”

  I remember those words well. I have used them myself when justifying the trade. They are not wrong - but they are not sufficiently right, either.

  I have seen a good few addicts since then, and not all of them Chinese, not by a long chalk. I have never been able to persuade myself that they were blameless. Weak and malleable, but not innocent victims, that is for sure. In the end, they chose initially to indulge in their vice.

  Self-justification – a nasty habit, one the old and newly respectable are much given to. I try to avoid it… sometimes.

  I still know too little of the Chinese. I know far too little of many things, but I do at least know that I am ignorant. Perhaps that’s why I never became a politician – one of the many sins I have managed to avoid in my chequered career.

  We watched as the sun fell and wondered if we could see some sort of meaningful movement in the meanderings of the pirates.

  The cook was busy and we were served an extra hot meal, sent round at our stations. We heard Captain Marker’s bellow.

  “If I was Navy, I’d say ‘splice the mainbrace’, but I ain’t, so have a bloody drink, lads!”

  We laughed, more than the joke was worth, but the tension was building high and strong in us. We were served our normal choice of rum or gin, and found it ladled out with a very generous hand.

  Captain Marker gave a brief speech.

  “Change the standing orders – things being what they are. No hammocks tonight, lads. Sleep by the guns. Boarders, one half of you awake and with your weapons to hand. Seamen, one half to crew the great guns and the swivels, the rest get your heads down, two hours about. Those awake, stay at the rails, watching larboard and starboard, stern and bows. They are going to come tonight, almost for sure. The sooner we spot them, the better the chance of our seeing the light of dawn. Shout at the first sight of anything out of the ordinary – a wave breaking where it should not or the faintest noise. It’s a good night for a killing – half a moon in an hour from now which will help us no end. A guinea in the pocket of the man who makes the first kill!”

  We laughed, for a guinea was not a great sum to any of us, as he well knew.

  I could not sleep, was amazed that so many of the men could.
My guts were knotted tight and I could feel myself twitching. I knew I was not scared, or no more than was right and proper, and wondered why I could not rest like the men did. I glanced down at Fred, resting on the deck at my feet, sound asleep. I envied his composure, the sangfroid he displayed.

  Jerry whispered from behind me, having moved silently along the deck.

  “Can’t sleep, Giles? No more can I. Too much to worry about, too many chances that things can go wrong… It ain’t fear, don’t worry that you’ve become a coward, you haven’t. It’s responsibility, Giles. Make a cock of it and too many of your boarders are going to die – how can you sleep, knowing that?”

  I heaved a sigh of relief, realising that what he said was true. I had been afraid that I was afraid.

  “Always the same, Giles, if you’re any good. The man in charge dies for every one of his men. So he should. It’s fun, being the boss, the one they call ‘sir’, but if you’re any good, it’s a bastard’s burden as well. You’ll laugh about it in the morning, Giles, but it’s real now. Keep your eyes open, lad.”

  He walked on, going around the whole of the deck, stopping to talk with the bulk of the standing men. It seemed that he reacted to the strain by finding work to do.

  The moon rose and the hours passed and I dozed for a while, was woken by Fred’s toe in my ribs.

  “Up thee get, Master Giles. Quiet like. They’s a-coming.”

  There was something out on the sea to starboard, a shadow crawling along where nothing should be. A single sampan, I thought.

  They would not come from just one boat.

  “Jamadar Rao!” I hissed the command, trying to shout in a whisper.

  “Sir.”

  “Your men to the larboard rail, muskets ready. If we can see one here, there may be a dozen in the darkness there.”

  There was a scuffle of bare feet as the Indian men changed position.

  “Maneater!”

  “Sir.”

  “Wait until the big guns fire, then a volley from the muskets and wait with your pistols. Watch forrard as well for a boat coming in under the bows.”

  “Got Little Arthur there, sir, with two others.”

  Little Arthur was less than five feet tall and rail thin. He was mad. I pitied any poor Chinaman who came swarming over the rails near him. Most of the boarders were less than entirely sane – they enjoyed fighting and often took a pleasure in actual killing. Little Arthur extended things further than that.

  “Bows?”

  “Master Gunner’s got the chaser there, sir. Some of his own with him.”

  We watched and waited and then there was a shout from the captain, stood by the wheel.

  “Six pounders, both batteries…” he waited for the roll, for the ship to come towards the level. “Shoot!”

  I closed my eyes against the muzzle flash and listened. They were loaded grape and I heard the balls rattling against the timbers of boats out in the darkness.

  “Blue lights!”

  The flares were inefficient, gave a flickering and weak illumination which showed a score of crowded boats, most to larboard, some of them smashed by cannon fire. The Navy woke up and the gunbrig fired single aimed shots from her four pounders, some of them hitting home, which was an achievement at night and a cable’s range.

  The Chinese yelled and heaved at their oars, bringing their boats to our sides. One of them actually managed to creep under the bowsprit so that men could climb up by way of the heads to meet Little Arthur. Foolish fellows – it was no way to meet their end, covered in shit first.

  The muskets crashed out their volley and the bulk of the first wave of men fell back into the sea and the bottom of their sampans. I had hoped that might discourage them, but the sole result was to anger the men behind them and bring them on harder. The swivels fired, followed by the harsher crash of the cannonades. There was a sharper bang and a flash of light and a sampan close to our bows took fire – a mixed blessing, hard alongside as it was.

  It was time to get busy, I thought.

  “Pistols! All six.”

  The closer the range the better for the hand guns. The ideal was touching the enemy – it was well possible to miss even at ten feet in the scurry and hurry of action.

  Some of our men were dropping already, a few of the Chinese having pikes or spears and stretching up with them.

  The pistol fire ended and it became blade work – there was no possibility of reloading.

  I had my precious sword in one hand and a heavy knife in the left. I leaned into the thrust as a figure appeared on the bulwarks in front of me and a swipe with the knife if he fell forward, an eye out for the next. There was a louder explosion beside me as Fred fired one of his old dragons into a cluster of men who were helping each other up the side. They fell into a heap in the bottom of the boat, loud wails of dismay coming from those around them.

  “Got that old bastard, Master Giles!”

  I had no breath to answer, being too busy squirming out from under the hooked blade of some halberd sort of thing that had come close to ripping my throat out and had a lump of my jerkin still attached. I was too near to use the sword and stabbed repeatedly with the knife, short thrusts first at the hands on the pole of the spear, or whatever it was, and then into the screaming face behind them. The man and the weapon fell away and I saw another coming up and slashed with the sword, over and down, getting that meaty thump of a blade cutting into a skull and then having to lever it out again.

  Time after time since then I have told myself not to cut down into a fellow’s head, but it’s easy to forget the rules in the heat of a fight. It does tend to discourage the poor chap’s mates, of course, so it might be a worthwhile activity even so.

  There was a sudden burst of firing and I saw the gunbrig’s hull not twenty yards distant, cutting through the sampans, running them down under her bows and shooting into them with muskets and swivels.

  A very neat piece of seamanship – the Navy has its uses. It turned the tide of the action.

  The remaining Chinese realised they had lost and tried to escape. Being pirates, they knew there was no gain to surrender – if they were taken all that awaited them was the noose. They tried to cut their boats loose and to row away, the boarders jumping back down and grabbing at oars.

  The gun crews dropped cutlasses and boarding axes and ran to their cannon, reloading in angry seconds and firing without further orders. I heard the peculiar, sharp explosion again and spotted Master Gunner lighting a fuse attached to an India Pale Ale bottle which he threw neatly aboard a sampan, where it exploded. His own stinkpots I later discovered, the bottle half-full of powder and with scrap iron shards on top. Very effective in a confined space.

  Men lit lanterns and we could see more clearly what was happening. I spotted Little Arthur among others scurrying among the wounded Chinese. I doubted they were offering succour. I looked about me, saw five men down with sword and knife wounds; I decided I had done my share of the work.

  “You’re bleeding, Master Giles. Your face is covered in blood.”

  “Ain’t mine, Fred. Can’t feel a thing.”

  “It’s yours.”

  Fred found a wet rag and wiped my face and more blood welled up from somewhere.

  “Told you it were yours, Master Giles.”

  Painstaking searching of my head directly under the light discovered a scratch above my right ear, under the hair line.

  “Hah! Tain’t bugger all, Master Giles. Bleeds like a stuck pig, so it does, any cut on the head.”

  We wiped it clean and I forgot it, never felt it the more, but it left a line of white through my hair quite out of proportion to its size. Very distinguished, they said. Can’t see it now, of course, the little hair I have left all being white in the nature of things.

  Come the dawn we inspected the half a dozen sampans still tied on, not expecting any loot but for the sake of tidiness. We did not want to leave any wounded pirates hanging about at our sides.

  “
Did you say that was an old chap that you shot down, Fred? With the dragon pistol, that was.”

  “Arr, so it were, Master Giles. Four of them, they were, all lifting the old bugger up the side, so that ‘er could join in. Reckon as ‘ow ‘er was their captain or such, too old for the game but wantin’ a last fight maybe.”

  “Brave old man!” I was quite touched by the picture of the old warrior refusing to stand back from battle.

  “Better nor dying in bed, so they says, Master Giles.”

  Perhaps – but I shall be quite content to go that way.

  We dropped down into the sampan and spotted the old chap immediately – his bald head was an instant giveaway. His clothing was richer as well. He had a scimitar-like curved sword at his side. I picked it up, seeing that it had an inlaid hilt with a couple of stones gleaming expensively. I handed it across to Fred.

  “You killed him, your spoils, Fred.”

  He tried to demur but Captain Marker was at the side looking down and enquired what the fuss was.

  “Fred shot down the old fellow here, and the bodyguard with him. He has the right to the old man’s sword.”

  “So he has. Take it, Fred, and stop bloody arguing.”

  “But… it be rich, Captain. Too much for I.”

  “Bullshit, man. It’s yours, to keep or to sell, whichever.”

  I spotted a crossbelt and sheath and stripped them off the corpse.

  “There you are, Fred.”

  He still has the belt, I know. He sold the sword years back and gave the money to a sister still living in the village. I don’t know how much he picked up but she and her man have a small farm of their own these days.

  That was all of the profit we made from that little fight.

  We made the harbour and came to anchor with no further difficulties. We delivered the cargo to Ainslie’s factor within the hour, glad to be rid of it, and then took stock of where we were and what we had achieved, and most importantly, what came next.