Nobody’s Child

by Andrew Wareham

  Fong brought my followers to me in the morning, left it to me to tell them what we were to do for the coming twelvemonth.

  “We are to turn five hundred armed coolies into soldiers, much like the sepoys, lads.”

  They shook their heads and pursed their lips and Whistling Dick whistled.

  “Not the easiest of tasks. I don’t think we want to parade them and march them about, but we must turn them into musketmen who can hold their lines and fire their volleys.”

  “Are we to turn them into soldiers who might fight against us, Mr Giles?”

  “No. The word is never to be said, but we are working for the Red Triad. That is not their proper name, but it is their colour. I cannot imagine that they will fight for the Chinese Emperor against our people. More like the other way round, if it comes to it.”

  They were not the patriotic sort, but they did know right from wrong. They did not approve.

  We sat for a few hours and lazily discussed what we were to do, and how we should go about it. We agreed that they must first learn to form into ranks and hold them. That meant to put them into companies and platoons, or sections, depending on which was best.

  “Five men, makes it five companies, each of one hundred. Maneater, you are to have First Company; John, Second; Little Arthur, Third; Whistling Dick, Fourth; Nobby, Fifth. You are all sergeants and equal, except that Maneater is senior sergeant. I suppose that I am Captain and Fred is my man, though I don’t know what the proper military name is.”

  “Aide-de-camp, so they says, Mr Giles.”

  “There you are, Fred, that’s for you.”

  Fred seemed quite proud of the title; he still uses it now when asked what he is and does.

  We decided that each company would have five platoons of about twenty men under their own corporal and that we would work them in two ranks of ten, that being the normal at sea and what was good enough for sailors would do for everybody else.

  “How do we talk to they, Mr Giles?”

  “We have to use something they call Pidgin, Maneater. It seems we will be taught it. Mr Fong will explain.”

  Mr Fong did so, though not best pleased to speak to them directly. His dignity demanded that he should not address the lower orders. A bit like the Spanish I got to know in the Peninsula years later when I was busy there. Full of pride and bullshit.

  “I have men who speak a few words of English and who will teach you Pidgin quickly.”

  When all was arranged and the five companies were being formed, I led Mr Fong to the side.

  “Why, Mr Fong?”

  He looked sternly at me, was on the verge of telling me it was not mine to ask that question. He evidently realised that he could not tell me to mind my own business and get on with the work, not if he wanted a trained battalion of soldiers.

  “It is possible that my Lord will come into conflict with the Qing. In such case, there is a need for a skilled and effective guard who will hold off the forces of the Emperor long enough for my Lord to board a ship. There are places where my Lord could settle in his own kingdom, if he is forced to leave China. The soldiers would be of great value there as well.”

  That made good sense to me.

  “If that is so, Mr Fong, then it will be wise to train the men in volley firing from walls and trenches. They can be taught how to defend a fort, or a ship. I would suggest, Mr Fong, that you consider the purchase of small cannon. Even swivel guns can be very useful when in defence.”

  Mr Fong had seen swivels on Jenny Dawes but had not appreciated just how valuable they could be.

  “A two pounder, Mr Fong, will shoot a score or so of musket balls across a distance of one hundred yards in a tight pattern. It can be reloaded in a minute. Using four of them, one can fire every fifteen seconds. Men will not wish to charge into such fire, Mr Fong.”

  “I shall speak to my Lord, Mr Jackson.”

  “Thank you, sir. For the while, we must train the men to form up into two ranks and to perform the simplest of evolutions. From marching column into line is the most useful. When they receive their muskets, then they will be taught much more.”

  The coolies were trained from childhood to be obedient. It was almost as if they were thankful to be given orders, as if they wanted to be told how and when to do everything in their lives. Military discipline was a meaningless concept, or so it seemed, as their lives in the villages were quite equally ordered. It made our task far simpler.

  By the time the muskets arrived the men were ready for them.

  It was clear that we would not need a whole year to train these men as soldiers. I spent a month teaching them to hold their muskets and to perform the basic drills before I allowed them to load and fire. That was when things became difficult.

  We had all learned a smattering of Pidgin by then, fortunately. We needed it.

  The five sergeants had stood in front of their companies and had shown how to load the musket. We did not have made cartridges and had to use powder flasks instead, which slowed loading.

  I watched as Little Arthur held his musket, butt down and tipped in one measure of powder and followed it with a cloth patch. He rammed the powder then dropped in a ball and a second patch and rammed it home. Then he lifted the musket in the crook of his arm, set it to half-cock and used the flask of fine powder to fill the pan and then flipped the cover shut. He turned and pointed the musket down range before pulling the hammer to full cock and squeezing the trigger. The target was a mud brick wall at fifty yards and he managed to hit it and send up a puff of dust. All very satisfactory. Then he called the men forward in tens in line abreast.

  “Load!”

  The Swedish muskets were almost indistinguishable from the Tower musket. One smoothbore flintlock was much the same as any other. They had a forty inch barrel, which was a fraction longer than I was used to, but demanded no new skills of the user.

  “Stop!”

  Little Arthur’s bellow took me by surprise – I had not realised that a man barely five feet tall could make such a noise. I saw him pointing at the second man in the rank.

  “You put three measures into the barrel!”

  “Makee plentee bang.”

  “Makee bloody head blow off! One measure! One! No more!”

  He started again, watching them even more carefully. He saw two of the soldiers putting the cloth patches away in their pockets, not wanting to waste good cotton that could be sewn up into patchwork. A third was happily ramming away at his musket, tucking his fifth bullet down the barrel.

  “Killee plenty, master!”

  “Killee you. One bullet or blow off head!”

  He checked all ten with their ramrods, making sure that it reached the correct distance into the barrel.

  He showed them again how to set half-cock and then prime the pan.

  “Now, point your muskets!”

  Then it was to walk down the rank, behind them, and bring the barrels to the horizontal and pointing down the range.

  “Shoot!”

  It was the naval command, but they were used to it.

  Ten fingers hauled back hard on the trigger; ten barrels rose into the air as they leaned back from the bang.

  Little Arthur suddenly became aware that he only had ten more months to train the men.

  “Next ten!”

  We had identified our corporals by the end of the week. They were the only men who could actually hit the wall.

  Three months in and we had five hundred men who could form their ranks and march out to take their proper positions and who could then load their firelocks. After that, things went downhill.

  Many were convinced still that the bang was more dangerous than the ball and that as long as they pointed in the vague general direction of the enemy, that would suffice. More were frightened of the weapon and snatched nervously at the trigger, pulling the barrel off line every time they fired.

  Nobby suggested that the problem was that they were alone when they pulled the trigger. In the vi
llage, they were never solitary, the very concept was alien to them. Those were not the exact words he used, but that was what he meant. I was immediately sure he was right.

  I had put them into ranks at a yard apart, so that they had room to load easily. I changed that, setting them literally shoulder to shoulder. It helped, but it was a tedious process, bringing them up to a reasonable competence.

  Things improved when we received a consignment of bayonets, long eighteen inch spikes that fitted round the muzzle on sockets. They liked bayonets, were happy to yell and charge straw-filled dummies and stick them ferociously.

  We were nine months at that training, without a break. Then Mr Fong came back.

  I had no doubt he had been receiving regular reports. He inspected the men, observed them at practice and pronounced himself satisfied. We had completed our task, and three months early. Well done my good and faithful!

  He brought in Chinese junior officers and placed them in command of the companies. I spoke to Mr Fong, told him it would not work.

  “Your new men have not trained with the soldiers. They will not know how to lead them.”

  “They are officers. They cannot train like peasants. They will tell the coolies what to do.”

  “The soldiers are used to being led, from the front. Your officers are standing to the side.”

  “They are important people. The sons of important people, that is. They cannot be expected to be killed like peasants.”

  I laughed aloud.

  “Soldiers fight. Sometimes they die. The officers fight at the front. If the officers will not fight, the men will not either. If the officers are cowards, the men will be too. If the officers are brave, the men will be heroes. If you want brave soldiers who will fight like Europeans, you must have brave officers who will do the same.”

  Mr Fong accepted that I might be right, but he could do nothing to change matters.

  “Then, sir, I have wasted my time for the past several months. These soldiers will not fight for you.”

  Mr Fong was not too disturbed – they looked like European soldiers and that would probably be good enough.

  “You will be taken into Whampoa, Mr Jackson. Your reward will be waiting for you in the morning.”

  The seven of us presented ourselves at the wharf and were led into a sampan and sailed to Whampoa, as promised. I had warned the men to load every barrel they possessed and keep them out of sight but close to hand. It was not that I distrusted Mr Fong, I liked the man, but his masters might well choose to save money by killing us instead of providing our pay. Add to that, they would not want it known that they had a trained private army.

  The Chinese made no attempt to behave dishonourably, somewhat to my surprise, but in fact, they very rarely did. I think they understood that they could make more from honest trade in the long run.

  We saw nothing of Mr Ainslie’s agent but were met by a Parsee gentleman who made no attempt to say who he was working for or representing. He waved us into another sampan and took us a mile or so out from the wharves to a lorcha waiting at anchor.

  We climbed aboard and he waved us towards the master and then waited for him to speak.

  “Me name’s Smith. Loaded yesterday. Finished, that is. Silks, mostly. Porcelain as well. Bills of lading here. Up to you to sell at the other end. There’s other stuff in the accommodation. I got to run you to Bombay. Quick passage, Nothing else. Good for twelve knots if the wind’s right. It won’t be all the time, but you’ll get a quick passage, like I said.”

  “What do you do in Bombay, Mr Smith?”

  “My bloody business, mister!”

  That probably translated as load with opium and run, but that was, as he said, none of my business.

  “You got your own stewards and cooks. Keep out the way of my people.”

  We did as we were told, spent most of our days amidships, laying out in the sun, but always with one of us alert and with a pistol belt to hand. We ate within reason well and played cards and talked and planned what to do when we reached Bombay.

  The ‘other stuff’ in the accommodation had transpired to be small sealed boxes containing sums of Maria Theresa dollars for the six and gold pagodas for me – big, heavy, soft gold coins, very pure. They came from one of the old kingdoms of India, they don’t mint them now. We used to talk about ‘shaking the pagoda tree’ – making quick money in a less than lawful fashion. That was what India was about in my day. Billy Pitt started the rot – he tried to turn India honest, daft bugger! All he achieved was to make the opium trade massively bigger; if that was his definition of ‘honesty’, well, it wasn’t mine!

  That all came later, though not by too many years.

  We came to anchor in the harbour off Bombay and sent a surfboat in to Ainslie’s wharf and called his people out to us. His lighter appeared within two hours, the man himself aboard.

  “What are you about, Mr Jackson?”

  “We have a cargo in payment for our services to the Red Triad over the past few months, Mr Ainslie. I would like you to handle it for us.”

  Ainslie winced at mention of the name – triads did not exist, were not allowed to in the official mind. Profits did, however.

  “Twelve and one-half per centum, Mr Jackson.”

  “Done, sir.” I had expected him to call for twenty-five.

  I handed the bills of lading to him, making a show of trust. He took the papers and tucked them into a wallet, unread. We had made a verbal agreement and neither demanded anything more. That was how we did business out there, and it normally worked well enough. When it did not, throats were cut.

  We settled down into our places in Bombay, myself back in Ainslie’s compound again. I stayed there a month, reading voraciously, having been short of books, and talking and playing with little Sunitra, who had greeted me with utter delight on my return.

  Mr Ainslie decided after the four weeks holiday that it was time to set me back to work and found what he described as a task to which I was ideally suited.

  “The French, Mr Jackson, are setting themselves up to be a nuisance. They are talking with the ruler of one of the Malay states, which they are free to do, but are proposing to set up a naval base from which they could raid our convoys to China in time of war. Irritating, but the Navy could deal with them. What the Navy cannot deal with is the use of such a base by pirates in time of peace. The ships would be privateers in wartime – a concept familiar to you – and officially pirates as far as the French government is concerned when there is no war. In reality, they would be in the control of the French navy at all times.”

  “Annoying, sir. What do you propose?”

  “I do not, Mr Jackson. The Commodore of the Bombay Marine suggests that we should take a leaf out of their book by despatching a private ship to destroy their base – an act of piracy which we shall disavow. Your Captain Partridge will take a large country ship with a heavy armament to make the raid. There will be a substantial force of trained men – they cannot be sepoys, of course – to land and destroy all shore facilities. You will command a part of that force, comprising men known to you mostly. There will be a second, separate and larger landing party under direct command of a military officer.”

  “Why?”

  “You can lead men who are experienced in using boats, probably to land in the dark hours and to make the first assault. The second party, almost all of them Indian men, will form a garrison while the base is destroyed and will endeavour to give the impression that they are natives of another Malay state along that coast.”

  I could not quite see why that was necessary but Mr Ainslie explained that it would serve to prevent war when Paris shouted outrage at London.

  “It keeps our noses clean but allows the use of the most skilled men we possess out of uniform. You are not to be captured.”

  “Succeed or die, sir? That will be costly, I would suggest. My men will wish to be well-paid if they are to put their skins on the line.”

  “The Company will
offer them employment onshore in India, earning a substantial salary and dressing clean. They will become respectable and permanent employees and able to take a wife. You, Mr Jackson, would find yourself in a position to make a large sum of money in a very few years, probably working out of Canton in the trading season and retiring to Macao when Canton is empty of traders. Five years working for the Company and you might well be placed as a trader elsewhere. That could be discussed later. It is expected that you would take a percentage of the cargoes you expedited in Canton and Macao.”

  It occurred to me that ‘expedited’ was a very broad sort of word. I decided I was in favour of it.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Nobody’s Child Series

  Nobody’s Child

  The location of this new French outpost or port or colony, or whatever, was only vaguely known. Or guessed, more likely.

  I was not surprised to discover that the business was in fact being run by Mr Arbuthnot, that Ainslie was being used as the ingenuous public face whose purpose was to hide the direct involvement of the Company, and probably the knowledge of the Governor.

  “On the eastern coast of the Malayan Peninsula, Mr Jackson. Perhaps some two hundred miles north along the coast. It is essentially marshland for most of that distance and the French are located, we believe, in a harbour immediately north of the marshes. It has no great town associated with it, as far as we know, which suggests a smaller harbour, or perhaps one with only poor farming land behind it. There are hills inland, however, and it is not wholly impossible that there is a mining interest there. Perhaps.”

  The more I heard, the less I liked.

  ‘Perhaps’, ‘we believe’, ‘suggests’ – all said that they did not know what they were doing and had therefore decided that I should do it for them.

  Why me?

  Because I was young and entirely without a family, of a certainty that was why! If I disappeared, who would know? London did not know me to exist, so how could I be a problem dead?