Halfhyde on the Yangtze Page 9

  “No, I realize that.” The parson was enunciating with much care, as though he might make mistakes, not diplomatic ones, but ones of speech, and Halfhyde, bearing in mind the extraordinarily hoarse voice, like a coffee-grinder, suspected whisky. Mr Erskine, though steady in his seat, was, Halfhyde believed, a little tight. Erskine went on, “In all the circumstances I feel I have no option but to make disclosures that perhaps I should not. Indeed, having started, I must go on, must I not?”

  Carstairs nodded. “It would be appreciated, certainly.”

  “Very well, then.” Hollowly, the clergyman coughed before proceeding. “Mr Bloementhal happens to be a friend of mine, a good friend. I was first introduced to him when I was in his country, don’t you know, for a conference of American Tabernaclers, of which he is one. Yes, we became good friends…and in due time Mr Bloementhal made me a proposition. To be brief, he made the point—and it was a valid one I believed and still believe—that Bibles could, had they a mind to, tell more than the word.” He peered around through his eyeglasses which, catching the light, magnified fishlike pale eyes. “To put it into other words, Bibles can carry messages if they’re in the proper hands. Secular messages.”

  “For Mr Bloementhal?”

  “Precisely, Mr Carstairs, for Mr Bloementhal and the American State Department,” Erskine answered with a touch of condescension. The State Department was much more important than a Consulate. “I felt that this was by no means wrong, nor inconsistent with the cloth. The Americans are not our enemies, and the maintenance of peace is always a Christian’s deepest wish. So I was prepared to act as an agent as it were and, I confess, a paid agent.”

  “Good heavens!”

  A pained expression crossed the clergyman’s face. “You do not, I think, quite understand. Being employed mainly upon God’s work, I naturally saw to it that all money received was handed as soon as possible to the Tabernacle funds except when it was more appropriate to pass it to the Anglican Bishop in Peking. I—”

  “Yes, I take your point—very worthy.” Carstairs paused. “Have you messages currently in your possession, Mr Erskine?”

  “Yes, indeed. For Mr Bloementhal.”

  “Who is not here, but is somewhere else in Chungking. I think perhaps the time has come…Bloementhal may be in danger of his life, may be dead already for all I know.” Carstairs leaned forward. “I am going to suggest, Mr Erskine, that the time has come to break a confidence, and hand the messages to me.”

  Erskine rubbed at his jaw. “It’s unethical. Very, very unethical.”

  “I agree, of course. But it could be vital. The messages may have some bearing upon our current problems, and could even assist Bloementhal himself.”

  “Yes, yes.” Erskine looked grave and gave a sudden involuntary belch that seemed possibly to confirm Halfhyde’s diagnosis. “Yes, indeed, you may be right, Mr Carstairs. I know you, and I trust you. Yes, I shall pass the messages and ask God’s forgiveness if I should transgress.” He lost no time; at his feet lay a black leather bag, into which he delved. Bibles were seen, and the neck of a bottle of John Haig, the latter being quickly pushed out of sight again. From between the leaves of a volume from his religious stock, the clergyman brought a sheet of rice-paper; from another, another sheet…again and again. The consular office began to look like the scene of a paper-chase.

  Chapter 7

  FOOD WAS brought to the prisoners, horrible stuff that turned the stomach: a nasty substance akin to thin porridge, with black bean husks floating in it like dead beetles. With this was water in a dirty earthenware pot, water that smelled foul and was a risk to drink, but after a while thirst overcame discretion and they drank–the porridge-like substance had a content of salt that had increased the thirst. Captain Watkiss, sitting on the wooden bed, felt very ill and tried to fix his mind on rescue. He would not, of course, be left to his fate; the China Squadron under Commodore Marriot-Lee, whilst not able to negotiate the Yangtze on account of draft, would bombard Shanghai, or anyway threaten to, unless the prisoners were at once released. That would make the dagoes sorry they had ever laid hands upon a Post Captain! But, as ever, the other side of the coin loomed large: there would be no bombardment unless and until word could be got through as to what had happened in Chungking. Time might produce a reaction, certainly—when no flotilla steamed back down the Yangtze questions would be in the air and revenge, but Captain Watkiss believed that death might well strike him before that happened. There were times when the sword of Admiralty was dreadfully slow to leave its sheath…and always he had to bear in mind that Post Captains, though important, might not be important enough to send the Empire to its war stations. The wretched Lord Salisbury, smug and safe in Number Ten, Downing Street, might be overcautious…and although Watkiss felt convinced that Her Majesty would, with her customary vigour, berate her Prime Minister for namby-pambyism, it was a sad fact that Her Majesty was always much more stirred by sad happenings to her soldiers than by the sufferings of her fleet.

  “Mr Bodmin?”

  “Ar, zur, I be ’ere.”

  “I know, that’s why I addressed you. What do you suggest, with your knowledge of the dagoes?”

  Bodmin scratched his head. “Why, I dunno, zur. They be unpredictable, they Chinamen. A funny lot they be, zur.”

  “Yes. Is there any way of getting a message through to Hong Kong or Foochow?”

  “I dunno, zur.”

  Watkiss clicked his teeth and instinctively reached for his missing monocle with a groping hand. “For a former boatswain, you seem somewhat useless, Mr Bodmin. Suggest something, for God’s sake!” He came up with an idea of his own. “Your wife, perhaps?”

  Bodmin demurred. “Ar, no, zur, no. The old woman, zur, she be no use at that sort o’ thing. She be a Chinese, you see, zur. She wouldn’t act against her own country, zur.”

  “Oh, nonsense, she’s British now, having married you.”

  “She don’t see it that way, zur.”

  “Damned disloyalty.”

  Watkiss brooded: no doubt Mrs Bodmin would in any case take time to reach Hong Kong on foot and could be waylaid by bandits en route. He glared at the two Americans, sitting side by side on the bed opposite and throwing dice between them which was typical of the casual attitude of Americans.

  “May I ask what you’re doing, Admiral?” Watkiss asked.

  Hackenticker looked up. “Throwing craps.”

  “Craps?” Watkiss fumed. “At a time like this?”

  “Your Francis Drake played bowls on a similar occasion.”

  “Oh, nonsense, there’s no parallel at all! What about the United States Navy, will they take no action—or your President?”

  Hackenticker shrugged. “We’re pawns, Captain, pawns in an international power game. We just have to be patient—”

  “Patient!”

  “And wait developments. My guess is, they won’t kill us. We stay here till the game’s won or lost, then they release us. In the meantime, we throw craps. Care to join us?”

  “Oh, hold your tongue!” Watkiss snapped. He wrapped his arms around his thick body and gloomed. Stalemate at least was in the air, probably checkmate. There was, in all truth, nothing to be done about it and Hackenticker was right. Force majeure was force majeure, and that was that. He tried to think of happier times, great days on the broad and stormy ocean, commanding his flotilla, or stalking his bridge as Captain of a great battleship steaming out of Plymouth Sound to the splendour of the band of the Royal Marine Light Infantry beating out Rule, Britannia…but the dreadful present kept intruding into pleasant fantasies: the horrid noises from the other cages and the evil smells, and the murderous looks as the Chinese convicts manifested enmity towards the white devils. That, and the drumming rain upon the gaol-house roof as the downpour continued without a moment’s remission and indeed seemed to be increasing so that Captain Watkiss pondered with dread upon what the stupid Beauchamp would be doing now with his flotilla as the waters of the Yangtze ros
e and lifted the gunboats upon its swelling bosom. Then, suddenly, something smote him that should have been obvious much sooner: Count von Furstenberg.

  “Mr Bodmin, and I know you’re here so you needn’t say so. Call the guard.”

  “Zur?”

  “In Chinese, call for the guard.”

  “Aye, aye, zur. Might I ask why first, zur, then I’ll know, see?”

  “Oh, very well! I wish to speak to Count von Furstenberg at once. This is the official gaol, so he’ll know we’re here, and he’s been guilty of the most damnable duplicity…I shall tell him so, and demand our immediate release unless he is willing to risk war between the British and German Empires.”

  “Ar, zur, but ’e’ll know that already like, zur—”

  “Hold your tongue, Mr Bodmin, and do as I say.”

  OUT UPON the Yangtze there was indeed a most remarkable surge of water already as the heavens remained open and the headwaters, swollen earlier by much rain in their vicinity, rolled downriver to Chungking. Inexorably the gunboats rose and tugged strongly at their cables and Mr Beauchamp, nervously fingering his jaw upon Cockroach’s, bridge, ordered the paying-out of more cable and sent signals advising the other two vessels to do likewise. Steam had been maintained upon the engines ever since arrival, so no extra decision was called for in that respect. Beauchamp paced the bridge, drenched even through his sou’wester and oilskins, his stomach turning over in response to his anxieties as to what to do next. He had only so much cable; if the waters rose much more, the cable would be straight up-and-down between the anchor shackle and the Senhouse slip in the cable locker, and when that happened the anchor would either break ground and set him loose or the ship’s head would be drawn down so that he would appear from the shore to command a diving duck. The other possibility would be to knock away all slips and stoppers and jettison the cable, and what would Captain Watkiss say then? Arrest would be his least pronouncement; anchors and cables cost a good deal of money and must be accounted for to the supplying dockyard, and many forms had to be filled in to explain why they had been cast adrift. Reasons and excuses had to be watertight or the officer responsible, which of course was always the Captain, might have to reimburse Her Majesty from his own pocket. It was such a worry…and there was another worry too: Captain Watkiss’ actual person. The Captain had adjured him to bear in mind constantly what was at stake—his very words. Beauchamp’s hands shook: Captain Watkiss was very much at stake, he fancied. Should he bombard the port? And if so, should he bombard it now while he still had steady gun-platforms? If he left his decision too late, the gunboats might find themselves adrift upon the waters and being sucked willy-nilly downstream, for the current was immensely fast, and Beauchamp foresaw the possibility that his engines would fail to breast it. A bombardment whilst being swept astern like a piece of jetsam would not carry much conviction or authority, and never mind that in any case the nine three-pounders distributed among the three ships of the flotilla were little more than popguns. Another consideration was whether or not such a bombardment would cause war; if it did, there would be no holding Captain Watkiss’ wrath. On the other hand…

  Beauchamp straightened his shoulders. He must not fail, he must be firm one way or the other. When the time came, and it hadn’t quite yet, he would be firm. A miracle could happen yet, and this awful nightmare be ended in the comparatively happy sight of Captain Watkiss strutting on to the wharf and waving his arms for a boat to be sent to bring him off.

  “YOU APPEAR to have been busy, Mr Erskine, and not only for the Lord.”

  “Purely spare time,” the missionary said with a touch of reproof. Having picked all the pieces of rice-paper from his Bibles, he shuffled them into consecutive order. Each sheet was neatly numbered, Halfhyde noticed. The writing was in plain English, a rather large hand. Erskine handed the collected pages to the Consul, frowning and muttering to himself as he did so, still seeming uncertain as to the propriety of his action in making his messages available to anyone other than Bloementhal. This done, he excused himself and departed with his black bag and a comment that nature called. When he returned there was a smell of whisky. “Well, Mr Carstairs?” he asked.

  “Possibly helpful, but I’m not in a position to judge the whole situation.” Carstairs continued reading carefully while Erskine fidgeted about the room, and Halfhyde grew more and more impatient as the clock ticked on. Finally the Consul nodded and said, “Thank you, Mr Erskine, you may leave this with me now.”

  “That’s all very well, but—”

  “I’m sorry, Mr Erskine. These papers must not fall into the wrong hands if we come under attack either here or on our way to the gunboats. The contents are now in my head—”

  “What are you suggesting should be done with the notes, then?”

  “They must be destroyed, I’m afraid.” Carstairs raised an eyebrow, smiling at the parson. “By eating, perhaps? Rice-paper—”

  “Is not in fact made from edible rice, Mr Carstairs, but from Fatsia Aralia papyrifera, a Formosan tree. If you wish to eat, you may do so, but I shall not risk it.” Erskine sat down looking angry. “In any case, they’re not your property.”

  “Needs must,” Carstairs murmured, and brought a box of Lucifers from a pocket. He constructed a small bonfire in a metal waste-paper bin whilst the clergyman muttered crossly. Taking care that the last scrap was consumed by the fire, Carstairs said briskly, “Thank you, Mr Erskine, you’ve been a great help and you may be sure I shall explain fully to Mr Bloementhal. Jacob’s Tabernacle funds shall not suffer, I promise you, nor the Bishop in Peking if appropriate. If you will kindly join the others, I must now make plans with Mr Halfhyde.”

  “Yes, but look here—”

  “Thank you, Mr Erskine, your part is done, now if you please allow me to do mine.”

  The missionary departed in a huff, clanking his black bag. (It contained, Halfhyde guessed, more than one bottle of John Haig.) When they were alone, Carstairs said, “I could fall victim to the mob—I know that. If that should happen, others must know what Erskine’s dug out so they can pass it to the right quarter. You, Halfhyde, and I, and Erskine—and you, Lord Edward—”

  “You may rely upon me, sir!” Lord Edward said eagerly.

  “Thank you—”

  “Stinky was my friend, you see. I’d never let any pater of his down.”

  “Decent of you. And my vice-consul here. That should be enough of us. One of us at least should get through. Now, here’s the gist.”

  They listened intently, conscious that any one of them might in fact become the sole conveyor to high authority or to Bloementhal. Much of the clergyman’s labours were devoted to rambles about which areas were most anti-European and of those that were not wholly anti-European, which were the most likely to offer welcome to the Germans or to the Russians to the exclusion of the British, French and Americans; also which areas held murmurings of disloyalty towards the ageing Empress-Dowager. The pith lay chiefly in Erskine’s estimate of the forces likely to be ranged against the British, French and American presence currently in Chungking. Szechwan province, it appeared, was fairly united in detesting all three equally, and the mandarins in the local seats of power could send many thousands of armed Chinese against the foreign devils in the consulates, of which only the British now remained intact. But the real heart of it all lay in a total indictment of the German, Count Hermann von Furstenberg, who was playing, at the very least, a double game that verged on being triple if not quadruple. Von Furstenberg’s principal concern was von Furstenberg rather than his Kaiser and never mind that his Kaiser had provided him with a personal escort of Uhlan Lancers to intimidate the rustic Chinese in the provinces, much money, and personal introductions to the court at Peking. Von Furstenberg, as emerged strongly from the missionary’s observations and subsequent committals to rice-paper, was doing the dirty on virtually everyone else concerned and arranging deals, and accepting vast bribes, on behalf of an armaments factory in the Austro-Hungar
ian Empire owned by his family. It was the intention of Count von Furstenberg to remain in China and set himself up in a position of power as a supplier of arms to the Empress-Dowager whilst at the same time maintaining through agents a supply line to certain interests hostile to the Empress-Dowager so that if she fell, von Furstenberg would still be indispensable to the new régime in China. All of this, obviously, would be of immense interest to the various European governments, not least to the German Kaiser, and to the old Empress-Dowager in Peking; and the knowledge of it was now, thanks to the Reverend Marchwood Erskine, a sword pointed at the disloyal heart of Count Hermann von Furstenberg.

  “How in God’s name,” Halfhyde asked in some astonishment, “did Erskine acquire all this knowledge?”

  Carstairs grinned. “No doubt as you’ve just remarked—in God’s name. He’s a cunning old devil, you know. I dare say some of the Tabernacular funds have been handed out in bribes, too. He’d have repaid them from moneys received from Bloementhal, I think—he’s basically honest. Anyway, there it is.”

  “You believe it, sir?”

  “For want of anything to make me disbelieve it, yes. It ties up with what I’ve heard of von Furstenberg, and it’s in the character of the German armaments manufacturers, to put profit above all else.”

  “Above patriotism?”

  Carstairs pursed his lips. “No…not all of them, most certainly. Von Furstenberg’s the black sheep.”

  “And his Emperor wouldn’t have known this?”

  “Hard to say. It seems probably not. On the other hand, Kaiser Wilhelm hasn’t his grandmother’s moral outlook.”

  “There may yet be something in it for him, you mean?”

  “Yes, it’s possible. A hit at the British Empire and its trading interests—you know the Germans and their aspirations, I’m sure, Halfhyde. They’re a damned unprincipled lot when it comes to extending their spheres of influence.” He grinned. “Or any other time when it suits them!”