Halfhyde on the Yangtze Page 5

  “A boat coming off, sir. A sampan, actually.”

  Halfhyde followed Cole’s outstretched arm: there was indeed a sampan emerging from the rolling clouds of smoke, and it appeared to contain two passengers, both of them uniformed. As the sampan was propelled closer by a large Chinese wielding an oar, the passengers became identifiable; one was wearing the British naval foreign service uniform of a warrant officer, the other, despite the intense heat of Chungking, wore a blue uniform tunic, braided and buttoned to the neck, the sleeves bearing a thick gold stripe surmounted by a thinner one with a gold star above.

  “Something tells me,” Halfhyde said with a grin, “that Rear Admiral Hackenticker is approaching. I suggest you go and tell the Captain, Mr Cole.”

  CAPTAIN WATKISS was bouncing up and down with anger: Rear Admiral Hackenticker, USN, who was virtually hidden by a heavy grey beard and was drenched in sweat, was bad enough. He appeared to think he was entitled to take command since he was the senior officer present and there were American citizens involved—but Watkiss felt well able to take care of that. Currently the chief trouble was the elderly warrant officer, ex-warrant officer strictly speaking since he was on the retired list and had no right to wear his uniform unless called out for service. Mr Bodmin, Boatswain, was not far off his eightieth birthday and was unquenchably garrulous. Moreover, he remembered Captain Watkiss as a midshipman some thirty years earlier.

  “I knew ee, zur. That’s that there Mr Watkiss I says to meself, I did, zur, on’y ’e’s that there Cap’n Watkiss now, I says. I—”

  “Yes, yes, Mr Bodmin—”

  “ ’Twas in the old Princess Royal—”

  “Yes—”

  “No, ’twasn’t come to think of it, zur, ’twere the old Racoon, ship-rigged corvette she be, or were it the old—”

  “Oh, really, Mr Bodmin, I can’t blasted well remember, and I doubt if—”

  “Mind, I’d not have known ee like if I hadn’t been told you were aboard the Cockroach, zur. You be fatter if I may make so bold as to say so, zur.” Mr Bodmin gave a deep chuckle. “A right young rascal you was in them days, zur, a right young scallywag, up to all manner o’ mischief…like puttin’ purgatives—”

  “Thank you, Mr Bodmin, that’ll be all.”

  “Like puttin’ Gregory Powder in the Chief Boatswain’s tea—”

  “Mr Bodmin!” Captain Watkiss flourished his telescope. “I have much respect for great age and much service, but you have gone on for long enough. What are you doing aboard my ship? What are you doing in Chungking—in China, come to that? Why are you wearing uniform?”

  Mr Bodmin cupped a hand around an ear. “Beg pardon, zur?”

  “Oh, never mind, never mind!” Watkiss swung his stomach towards Rear Admiral Hackenticker. “Possibly you can explain, sir?”

  “I doubt if I can explain the old gentleman,” Hackenticker said briskly; he was a brisk man, sparrow-like in build but given added stature by the beard’s full-hearted sprout. “He kind of turned up at the wharf…said something about Chinese Customs—”

  “Ar,” Mr Bodmin said, nodding his head vigorously. “’Er Marjesty’s Chinese Customs, zur, after I left the sea. There be a Customs station in Chungking, zur, see?”

  “You’re the Customs man, then?”

  “Ar, that I be, zur, and bein’ as I were comin’ out to one of ’er Marjesty’s ships, zur, I come in my old naval uniform, zur—”

  “Yes, yes, quite—misguided and illegal, but understandable. Why are you still at large?” When Mr Bodmin seemed uncertain as to his meaning, Watkiss elaborated: “Why have the dagoes not impounded you along with the rest? I refer to the Chinese, Mr Bodmin,” he added.

  “Ar, zur. Yes, zur. I be well known to the Chinamen, zur, see. I married one o’ ’em like. And besides, zur, them Chinamen, they do respect the Queen’s uniform.”

  “Yes, indeed, you’re quite right, Mr Bodmin, quite right, and it’s the very point I’ve been making to my own officers.” Watkiss turned again to Rear Admiral Hackenticker. “I understood you to say you’d arrived from Peking, Admiral. May I ask how and why?”

  “Surely. How? Horse transport. Why? Diplomatic considerations, Captain.” Hackenticker twinkled through his beard. “We don’t have a Queen, but we do have a President, and the Chinamen respect his naval and military uniforms like they do the Queen’s, and—”

  “You mean your government believes such affairs are better handled by the armed forces than by civilians?”

  “Correct, Captain.”

  Watkiss smiled, and clapped the Rear Admiral on a shoulder. “We see alike, Admiral. I wish you’d make that plain to your Mr Bloementhal, who seems to believe he has a right to vet my military decisions.”

  Hackenticker nodded. “I’ve boarded you largely to talk to Bloementhal. I have certain information, and this information may affect your own movement decisions, Captain. May we go below?”

  “By all means, but I must ask you to be brief, Admiral. I am proceeding to war stations within the next hour.”

  MR BODMIN, it seemed, had boarded purely upon Customs duty and was not connected with the war situation; he was fortuitous in that respect. Whilst Captain Watkiss closeted himself with Rear Admiral Hackenticker plus Lieutenant Halfhyde and Mr Bloementhal, Boatswain Bodmin tottered below decks, delighted to be once again aboard a British man-o’-war wearing the White Ensign. His duties as far as they concerned shipping took him mainly aboard sampans and junks and sleazy river steamboats officered by largely drunken persons rejected by the deep-sea trade. Not very pleasant people; Mr Bodmin was a lifelong, or almost lifelong, teetotaller, non-swearer, and largely non-womanizer although there had been sad lapses in the latter virtue. These facts he now retailed to Mr Beauchamp, who had come face to face with him on emerging from his cabin to visit the heads. Mr Beauchamp had enquired in some astonishment who he was; and Mr Bodmin launched again into his spiel.

  “I knew that there Cap’n Watkiss when ’e were a snotty-nosed young shaver, zur.”

  “Really?”

  “Ar. I first went to sea, zur, when I were…” Bodmin scratched his head. “I dunno what I were. I were a foundling like, see, found in the town o’ Bodmin in Cornwall…that’s why they called me Bodmin, zur. Outside they barricks in Bodmin, zur, in a shawl. They might ’ave christened me Cornish Light Infantry, zur, but they didn’t…it were their barricks, see, the Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry they do be now, zur—”

  “Ah, yes—”

  “Anyway, zur, when I went to sea, it were back in ’24 or ’25 or thereabouts, when King William were on the throne, zur. I’d be about ten, I reckon. Them were the days, zur. Shellbacks we was, shellbacks, an’ ’ard livers. ’Ard drinkers, many o’ us, zur. But not me, oh no, zur.” Mr Bodmin sucked in his cheeks.

  “No?”

  “No, zur, not since I were four-and-twenty, zur, nor loose women neither, leastways…” Mr Bodmin gave a cough and refrained from elaboration. He paused, brought out a highly-coloured handkerchief and blew his nose like a bugle. “You looks like a gentleman, zur, like all naval officers o’ course. I dare say you don’t take alcohol, nor go with women, zur, nor curse, nor take the Lord’s name in vain, zur, nor suchlike.” The old man looked somewhat startled as a frantic shout came from the upper deck, a shout directed at Mr Beauchamp requesting him to cease chatting like a blasted whore off duty and attend when his Captain called. “What were that, zur?”

  “Captain Watkiss,” Beauchamp explained, and then moved at the double towards the shout and the upper deck. “You want me, sir?”

  “Yes! Prepare to land! The situation is more serious than I thought. I shall need even you.”

  “But I’m in arrest, sir!”

  “No, you aren’t, don’t argue, Mr Beauchamp, I’ve changed my mind, but you’ll be back in arrest in double quick time if you don’t smarten up your ideas, Mr Beauchamp, and move. Tell Bodmin I want him. He may be Customs, but he’s being commandeered.” Captain Watkiss turne
d away and bounced along his decks in his long shorts, his telescope held out like a lance. Action was imminent; his blood pumped strongly. He would show the dagoes who was master in their blasted country, and at the same time he would show the Americans what the British Navy was made of. It was a pity about that fool Beauchamp, who would be sure to let him down sooner or later, and Bodmin had one and a half feet in the grave and was no advertisement for smartness, but at least he would know the short cuts to the British Consulate.

  “ALL READY, Mr Halfhyde?” Watkiss asked.

  Halfhyde saluted. “All ready, sir. Landing-party standing by under the gunner’s mate, and all reports in from the flotilla.”

  “Good. Four short blasts, if you please.”

  Halfhyde reached up and jerked on the lanyard. A lot of hot water shot out but the siren gave only a tiny bleat. Watkiss brandished his telescope. “The damn engineer’s in arrest! Try again.”

  Halfhyde did so; the result was a little better, and four watery snorts emerged. Watkiss was furious; what would the wretched Americans think, but it would have to do for time was short. Rear Admiral Hackenticker had passed unbelievable news: the Russian Empire had now become actively involved and shallow-draught ships of the Russian Imperial Navy were understood to have left Port Arthur some days previously, bound south. It was not unlikely they might attempt to force a passage past Woosung and enter the Yangtze: it was imperative that the Europeans in the British Consulate should be extracted without delay and that they be sailed out of the Yangtze before the Russians entered. It was believed, Hackenticker had said, that the Russians meant to get their hands on the German, Count Hermann von Furstenberg, who was also to be brought out whether he wanted to be or not. Watkiss was damned if he could see why he should bother about Huns, but there it was: Hackenticker had been firm that the British authorities were in accord with the American and that what he brought were, in fact, orders.

  Halfhyde followed his Captain towards the cutter, which was already in the water. The landing-party was embarked with Beauchamp, Cole, Bodmin and the gunner’s mate. On deck waited Rear Admiral Hackenticker, plus Bloementhal, and Halfhyde foresaw a situation developing vis-à-vis Hackenticker: in the British Navy, junior officers entered a boat first, and disembarked last, the idea being that on neither occasion should juniors keep their seniors waiting. Captain Watkiss looked murderous as he took in the fact that Hackenticker was waiting for him to embark first. He clenched his sword scabbard like a vice and motioned Hackenticker to get aboard.

  “After you, Captain.”

  “You first, my dear sir.”

  “You have the privilege, Captain.”

  Watkiss’ mouth opened, then closed again without utterance. Time could be short; Watkiss decided upon magnanimity and with a face like thunder embarked in the cutter, followed by Hackenticker. With no time lost the order was passed to bear off and the cutter’s coxswain took his boat out into the stream, heading through the smoke for the wharf and the confused sounds of rebellion, war and riot. The heat, both natural and conflagration-induced, was appalling and Watkiss, pulling at the sweat-drenched neckband of his white tunic, wondered how Hackenticker could bear to be wearing heavy blues, but then Americans always dressed, like they ate, oddly…and the stench was as dreadful as the heat. Captain Watkiss pulled out a handkerchief and held it to his nose. Every dead cat and dog from all China must have found its horrible way into the Yangtze to drift past Chungking, and other things too. Captain Watkiss, looking astern to watch the onward progress of the other boats bringing the landing-parties, saw some of the other things and felt his stomach heave. How anyone could bear to be a Chinaman was beyond him; he noted that Hackenticker was looking ill also.

  As the Cockroach’s cutter came alongside, Watkiss was ready and executed a nimble manoeuvre, virtually leaping across the American’s knees to get his feet upon the slippery steps leading up to the top of the wharf. Luck was with him: he remained upright, and climbed pompously as the others disembarked behind him. Smoke rolled across the wharf and in its eye-watering gloom figures could be seen—dagoes, flitting like ghosts. Watkiss took not the slightest notice of them other than to draw the only weapon he had brought: his sword. Out it came from its black and gold scabbard to be waved vigorously towards the foe, and after doing this Captain Watkiss disdainfully turned his back as the boats came in from the rest of his flotilla.

  “Mr Halfhyde, the muster to be carried out speedily. Mr Beauchamp?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You are an officer, I suppose, but you shall take no command. You will bring up the rear.”

  “Sir, I—”

  “Kindly hold your tongue, Mr Beauchamp, or back you go in arrest and that’s fact, I said it.” Watkiss gazed about, peering through the smoke. “Where’s that man Bodmin?”

  “I be ’ere, zur.”

  “Ah, Mr Bodmin. Take up your position in the lead with me, if you please. If your age is against fast movement, then two hands will be detailed to carry you and you shall lead the way from there.”

  Bodmin protested. “I be fully capable o’ motion, zur.”

  “Good, good. You appear senile to me, but still. Now, Admiral Hackenticker, you may take your position alongside me, but you’ll kindly remember I’m in command throughout, under orders from the British Admiralty which in effect means Her Majesty.”

  “Captain, I must—”

  “Hold your—kindly do as I say, sir. This is no time for dispute.” Captain Watkiss moved away, putting his officers and men between himself and some Presidential pronouncement, taking it that Hackenticker was probably about to indicate that his orders too came from a high source. Within minutes of disembarkation the party from Cockroach was joined by the men from the rest of the ships.

  Halfhyde reported: “All mustered and correct, sir, and ready to proceed.”

  “Thank you, Mr Halfhyde, I’m obliged. I do hope Mr Bodmin is as fit as he makes out. Move off, if you please.” Watkiss strode to the right of the line, which would lead out. Sword in hand, he advanced with Hackenticker and Bodmin as Halfhyde gave the nod to the gunner’s mate. They marched stolidly into the smoke as the gunner’s mate turned them into column and began to shout the step, one hundred and twenty bluejackets and men of the Royal Marine Light Infantry, the former smartly gaitered and with chin-stays down, their rifles with the gleaming bayonets held at the slope, the marines in their khaki-drill tunics, also with bayoneted rifles and with heavy ammunition boots that clanged on the ancient stone of China as they moved inwards from the wharf. They could, Watkiss thought with pride and emotion, have been marching upon a simple ceremony from the barrack hulks at Portsmouth, or upon the Hoe at Plymouth where Drake had finished his game of bowls before sailing out to smash the dago armada centuries before. The British tar was splendid, really splendid, and could never be beaten. To the British tar, there was no difference between a route march through Queen Street and Edinburgh Road and Commercial Road, out from the main gate of Her Majesty’s dockyard through Portsmouth town, and an advance to war and death in filthy China. The smell was worse now, much worse, like a million drains gone wrong. Bodmin must have a cast-iron stomach to manage to live in China, Watkiss thought as he moved on behind his elderly guide, who was miraculously mobile yet. Watkiss stared ahead as they left the proximity of the river and started to climb. Chungking, as had been noted from the chart, was a hilly place, and sweat began to pour in streams from all the marching men. Soon they came close to the fires: the Street of the Tailors, the Street of the Aphrodisiac Sellers, the Street of the Cobblers, the Street of the Prostitutes, all were burning. Captain Watkiss’ voice came in a ringing shout: “Mr Halfhyde!”

  Halfhyde moved ahead. “Yes, sir?”

  “No enemy, Mr Halfhyde!” Watkiss waved his sword. “No guts! They’ve seen our uniforms.”

  “It could be a trap, sir.”

  “Oh, nonsense, Mr Halfhyde, dagoes haven’t the intelligence for that.”

  “I’d not
bank on it.”

  “Oh, wouldn’t you, Mr Halfhyde, well, I shall.” Captain Watkiss bounced on importantly, his eyes gleaming, his monocle jerking at the end of its toggle as it rode his stomach, his sword-point waggling dangerously about as he gesticulated. “It’s always the same, you know. You remember Sevastopol,” he said in reference not to the Crimean War but to something much more recent and well recollected by Halfhyde, “when I landed with my men to cut out that old sea-captain what’s his name from Prince Gorsinski? Why, the blasted Russians were like lambs—you’ve only to disregard dagoes and it utterly undermines their confidence in themselves. Utterly undermines it. What a stench.” Peering about suspiciously, he felt a hand on his arm, and glanced sideways. “Yes, Admiral, what is it?”

  “I think your Lieutenant Halfhyde’s right, Captain.”

  “Oh, nonsense,” Watkiss snapped, looking angry.

  “We ought in my view to be ready for attack.”

  Watkiss stared. “Do you imagine for one moment that we’re not, my dear sir? The British Navy is ready at all times, ready for anything that may happen.”

  Hackenticker asked quietly, “Ready for that, Captain?” He pointed ahead, and the others saw it in the same instant: coming visible now through the clouds of smoke was a solid wall of Chinese, both soldiers and civilians, standing massively across the British line of advance. Watkiss gaped, but marched on. Halfhyde turned back along the line, calling orders for the men to stand-to and bring their rifles to the ready. In the rear of the line Mr Beauchamp fingered his jaw in much doubt: how was an officer in arrest placed for the use of his revolver? Could he shoot as a man of war, or would he be tried for murder as a civilian if he killed anybody? If he didn’t, would he then be court martialled for the very grave crime of cowardice and giving succour to the enemy? From many angles at once, death stared Mr Beauchamp full in the face; and as he pondered and came to no conclusions at all, he felt some sort of presence behind his back, something fearful and filled with menace. He turned and glanced furtively over his shoulder, and saw more Chinese crowding in from the rear. Feeling his stomach turn to water he gave tongue, shouting up the line to Captain Watkiss.