Chapter 3

Whampoa Reach was so densely crowded with shipping when they dropped the hook after a four-day voyage up the teeming Pearl River that they barely had room to swing. The river had narrowed from a wide estuary to a proper river at the Bogue after the first two days. The river pilot that guided them had gone hoarse cursing the sampans and junks full of fishermen, mendicants and permanently poor to get out of their way. And the closer they got to Canton, the more it seemed that the Pearl River had been cruelly inaptly named. It stank worse than the Old Fleet Ditch, the Hooghly or the Thames, bearing as it did the ordure and the garbage of untold millions of Chinese from its mountain birthplace to their anchorage.

There were ships of every nation there, crowded into the Reach as cheek-to-jowl as the thousands of native boats that made up floating suburbs, too poor to live on land. Dane and Dutch flags fluttered above vessels so beamy they looked like butter-tubs. There were Spanish and Portugese ships, Swedish ships, and a few merchantmen from Hamburg and the Baltic, even a pair of Prussians. There were British East Indiamen as lofty and trim as the stoutest “ocean bulldogs” of the Royal Navy, and country ships looking more rakish and piratical than something from a Defoe tale. There were Russian ships, even some Austrians, and lesser nations from the Mediterranean. And there were three or four racebuilt and over-sparred vessels, a little smaller than most, flying the new Stars and Stripes of the late Rebel Colonies, now graced by the name of the United States of America. And the French, huge merchantmen of the Compagnie des Indies, and their own country ships.

Whampoa Island, from September and the delivery of the first teas from inland, to the first of March when the Chinese would order them out and the Monsoon winds shifted to make faster passages home, would be a floating international city of its own below the distinctive island’s pagodas and towers.

Alan Lewrie reckoned it would have to do for the next few weeks. With so many strictures on merchantmen as foreign-devil barbarians, there wouldn’t be much in the way of recreation, except for the infamous Hog Lane ashore in the factory ghetto of Canton. Bumboats came alongside in a continual stream offering whores and gew-gaws, but no captain in his right mind would put his ship out of discipline in such an alien harbor, outnumbered as they were.

The hands eschewed these poorer offerings and waited their turn to visit Hog Lane, where they could swill and swive, no matter that the women would probably be peppered to their eyebrows with the pox. They heeded no warnings, and no captain could enforce celibacy without having a mutiny on his hands. The men had had enough of “boxing the Jesuit and getting cock-roaches,” as they termed solitary stimulation.

There were other ships to visit, if one’s idea of fun was going aboard another ship after spending up to six months aboard one already. Most provided what little entertainment they could, and Telesto was popular since she had bagpipers, the hand-bellows organ and some accomplished fiddlers and fifers to amuse her visitors, and her own hands. But even here, they were limited by the strictures of the host nation. Once at anchor, they had put out a ship’s boat so the bosun could row about to see if the yards were squared away properly, and a mandarin’s junk had been there in a twinkling, shouting pidgin orders against “boating for pleasure.”

Alan suspected the mandarins got a cut from the many sampans that ruled the ‘tween-ship traffic, who charged exorbitant fees to ferry foreign-devils about, their prices changing with no rhyme or reason, almost from one hour to the next.

The visiting back and forth would have made it easy to snoop and pry to find their suspected French privateers. Except that Alan wasn’t allowed to. After their last encounter, he was pretty much in Twigg’s bad-books again, and idled aboard ship most of the time. There was work to do, and he was made aware that he was, indeed, the fourth officer, the most junior, therefore the one most liable.

Twigg and his partner, Wythy, were thankfully out of his hair. They had gone ashore to take borrowed or rented “digs” at one of the established hongs in the factory-ghetto, doing arcane trading things, such as turning their lacs of silver into checques for safer transport, arranging the purchase of teas, silks, nankeens to be woven by hand from Indian cotton, and showing patterns for sets of china and lacquerware, and diagrams for the latest styles in furniture wanted back home in England so they could be manufactured in time for departure.

Their cargo of opium, the officers were informed in the captain’s quarters, had fetched over eighty thousand pounds sterling above what they’d had to pay out to customs officials and mandarins as bribes. Which sum made every officer lift his eyebrows and make small, speculative, humming noises. “Hmmm, damn profitable work, for Navy-work, hmmm?” Made them wonder just what percentage would be Droits of the Crown, what part Droits of the Admiralty, and what precedent there would be about shares after the expense of the voyage was subtracted. In peacetime, there was no prize-money for fighting and taking a ship in combat, and there never was much profit in taking a privateer, which was why they flourished so easily. Made them wonder if anyone from the Crown would mind if they laid a few thousand guineas aside ... “for contingencies” ... and never reported it. Never reported any profit at all, perhaps, and pocketed the sum entire ... ?

* * * *

Lewrie finally got shore leave after a couple of weeks. In company with McTaggart again, he went over the side and took his ease in a large bumboat, a scow or barge practically as wide as it was long, for the twelve-mile row to Canton. They were ensconsed in capacious chairs on the upper deck, while seamen had to idle on the lower deck in a herd of expectant and recently paid humanity. They sampled mao tai brandy and lolled indolent as mandarins, though the fussy, and Presbyterian, McTaggart had some qualms about being too comfortable in this life.

They wafted up the narrowing river between the mainland and Honam Island, a faerie-land of willows, delicate bridges, parks and ponds, where the Joss House was, and the homes of some of the richest Chinese merchants of the Co Hong. But Honam Island, to larboard, was not their destination. They were landed at Jack Ass Point, next to one of the customs houses. The sailors from several ships gave a great cheer and dashed to the right of the huge square for Hog Lane, leaving McTaggart and Lewrie to descend and alight.

“There’s mair commerce in this ain place than the Pool of London!” McTaggart exclaimed as they goggled at the piles and piles of goods, the hordes of coolies fetching and toting and the sampans being loaded and unloaded. On the far side of the square, there was a long row of factories, broken only by Hog Lane, China Street and a creek. On the other side of the factories, or hongs, there was a wide boulevard, and the Consoo House, the headquarters of the Yeung Hong Sheung, better known as the Co Hong, and a matching row of old and delapidated minor hongs of Chinese merchants, there on sufferance from the Co Hong. The whole thing was walled in from the rest of the city to prevent the natives from being disturbed or corrupted by the barbarian traders. But the Consoo House and most of the hongs on that side of Factory Street, as they’d been warned, were off-limits for them, except for a few shops in Old Clothes Street, and Carpenter’s Square at the far right-hand end of the ghetto.

Feeling naked without a pistol, sword or even a clasp knife, they made the best of their time ashore. First stop was at the Chun Qua Factory, third building east of China Street, to their far left, where they’d established headquarters. Conveniently right next door to the French Compagnie des Indies factory!

“Ah, welcome ashore at last,” Tom Wythy grated, sounding anything but welcoming, as he sorted through packets of tea on a table. “Have an ale. Chinee muck, but not as bad as some.”

He had a large tub near his feet, filled with ice and rice chaff, from which he drew two stone bottles and preferred them.

“Cold ale?” Alan frowned.

“Aye, ice comes all the way from Siberia, far’s I know, run by some poor coolies, an’ God help ‘em if it melts on the way. The way they like it.” Wythy belched. “No accountin’ fer taste among savages. Refreshin’ on a hot day, though, I must admit.”

“Mm, not bad at that,” Alan commented after an appreciative eructation of his own. “Close enough to home-brewed.”

“Mm, if the inn’s common-rooms’r chilly as most back in England. Let it stand awhile if it’s too cold fer ye, Mister McTaggart.”

“What are you doing, sir?” McTaggart asked.

“Gradin’ tea, such as I may. Sit ye down to see.”

As they quaffed their ales, Wythy laid out samples, explaining their grades and desirability. The smaller the leaves, the better the tea. There was coarse black Bohea, from late in the growing season, worth something in trade but not much: a poor man’s tea. Another black tea was Congou, what the East India Company bought in quantity. The best black teas were Souchong, scented with flowers, and Pekoe, which was only of the best young spring buds, delicate and very dear.

Then there were the green teas: Gunpowder and Pearl Tea, and Yu Tsien, which were the choicest spring pickings, and in descending order, Hyson skin, and Twankay, which was mostly used to adulterate batches of the better pickings.

“Yes, I’ve always found the younger the bud, the more fun to pick as well, sir,” Alan grinned, unable to contain himself as the lecture ran on, and on, and on.

“More like deflowerin’, Mister Lewrie?” Wythy rasped. “Ye’d be the best judge o’ that, I’m sure. Ye mind my warnin’ about the local lasses, both o’ ye? ‘Twas Macao’r nothin’. No women in the factories, ye know.”

“Yet there are women in Hog Lane, sir, for the sailors?” Alan inquired. “Do the Chinese mean no foreign women, or no women at all?”

“Aye, fer a whiff o’ silver, ye may find custom, though I warn ye both, they’re sure to be poxed so bad even the surgeon’s mercury cure’d only slow it down,” Wythy allowed.

“But something more discreet ... uhm, more select for senior traders, sir?” Alan pressed softly, and was pleased that Wythy gave him a shrug and a sly wink. So the man’s not a total lout, he thought!

“A tai pan, head of a trading house, well, there are places ...” Wythy grunted. “Not at this time of day. The Chinee is a hard-workin’ bugger. The day’s fer making profit. If the humor’s on ye so devilish hard, Mister Lewrie, I’ll give ye the fairest wind to steer y’er course by, but ‘pon y’er head be it, mind.”

“Aye, sir,” Alan agreed. “I’d expect nothing less.”

“Well, be off with ye. I’ve work to do. Sup here with us at seven o’ the evening. In the meantime, enjoy the sights. Take a peek about. Go visiting,” Wythy enjoined, winking once more and jerking his head over his shoulder to indicate the French hong next door. “I spotted some nice bargains along China Street.”

They finished their ales and went outside into the heat of the day. After a couple of cold ones, it didn’t seem that bad any longer, and there was a decent breeze to keep the hordes of flies at bay and cool the air. At least it wasn’t Calcutta, or the Equator.

“I despair o’ your immortal soul, Mister Lewrie,” McTaggart sighed with a long-put-upon air. “Wenching. Is that all ya hae on your mind, sir?”

“If left to my own devices, yes,” Alan confessed willingly.

“You’re as much a heathen as een o’ these yellow fellas! A bluidy ... pagan!” McTaggart spat. “I doan know why I abide your comp’ny!”

“Church of England, actually, not pagan,” Alan corrected.

“Same bluidy thing,” McTaggart sighed.

* * * *

They shopped in China Street, running into Burgess Chiswick, who was out browzing in company with his native orderly Nandu, both wearing civilian clothes. Burgess was loaded down with packages—or at least his orderly was.

“The most unbelievable things, Alan!” Burgess enthused. “Laces as good as any from Flanders or Holland, and damn-all cheap, too. A whole tablecloth for the price of a man’s shirt, can you credit it?”

“Hollo, what’s this? In need of fanning, Burge?” Alan teased.

“For mother. And for Caroline. Even one for Mammy.”

“Your grand-mither?” McTaggart inquired, somewhat confused.

“Family slave. Been with us for years,” Burge informed him off-handedly. “Couldn’t bear to sell her off at Charleston, so she crossed to England with us. Practically raised me. Those smaller bundles are silk shawls for all. Can’t go to a drum or dance without a fancy shawl and a Chinese fan, now can they?”

“Slavery.” McTaggart shivered, and wandered off on his own.

“What the devil did he mean by that?” Chiswick huffed. “By God, if he’s slurring my family because we ...”

“No reason to take offense, Burge,” Alan said, grinning. “Between my morals, and you a slave-owning Carolinian, he’s having a hellish hard day of it.”

“The devil take him, then, him and his blue-stocking airs.”

“My dear Burgess, the devil wouldn’t dare!” Alan drawled.

After plunging into the market, Alan was entranced all over again, just as he had been in Calcutta. There was so much to see, so many new aromas to savor, so many goods in so many shops that would have gathered mobs of oglers back in London, though most of them could never afford most of it, as novel as any raree-show on earth. And once more, he was glad he’d sailed halfway round the world to see it, hard as the sailing was between ports. This experience was something he’d never forget.

As mementoes, he bought a fiery-red silk dressing gown for himself, all figured with dragons in green and iridescent blue that leaped off the cloth. A small carved ivory junk. Some marble models of temple dogs for his mantel, wherever that would be once he was home. And, with mention of the lovely and gentle Caroline Chiswick, he purchased a pair of earrings and a necklace made of jade, ivory and silver beads, to go home to her on the first Indiaman clearing port for England.

They loaded Nandu down like a pack-pony and sent him trotting off to the Chun Qua Factory, while they took a stand-up repast of hot soup and noodles from an open-air vendor, and strolled the square. Most particularly that part of the square behind the French Factory.

“Now what the devil . . . ?” Alan mused aloud as they saw some of the items being carted up to the factory from the docks and customs house on the quay. “Can you tell me what these are, sir?”

Alan had inquired of a man dressed as a European seaman.

“M’seur?” the man replied, turning to face them.

“Park vous l’anglais, m’seur? Can you tell me ...”

“Ah, mais out. Zose, m’seur? Ze shark feens,” the man said.

“Well, now I’ve heard just about everything,” Burgess griped.

“Whatever are they for?”

“Pour ze potage, m’seur,” the sailor explained. “Pardon, j’sui Marcel Monnot. Notre ship La Malouine. Et vous?” After they had introduced themselves, Monnot went on. “Ze shark feen soup, m’seurs. Zese Chinetoque, zey manger zese potage ... mak zem . . .” He could not think of the English word, so he rammed an expressive fist at them, grasping his arm at the elbow. “Pour ze old homme wiz ze fair jeune fille, n ‘est-ce pas! Mak ‘Iverge’ formidable, ha ha!”

“Like oysters!” Burgess cried in delight. “For renewed vigor with the ladies. God, as many sharks as we saw on the voyage here, I wish we’d known of it. Do they pay dear for them, then?”

“Ah, mais oui, m’seur!” Monnot agreed heartily. “Un feen, zey pay trois, quatre livresl” he told them with an expansive Gallic shrug. “Vee ‘ave beaucoup feen, mak beaucoup livres, hah! Bon!”

“Well, damme,” Alan commented. “Merci, M’seur Monnot.”

“Vee ‘ave also ze ginseng, m’seurs. Vair good. Same, aussi.”

“Monnot, allez vite! Revenir aux travaille!” some petty officer barked, and the man bowed his departure, leaving Chiswick and Lewrie to stroll among the boxes and crates as he went back to work.

“I never heard that ginseng was a restorative in the Caroli-nas,” Burgess said. “Made a good, healthful tea, was all we used it for. Mother swears by it, but it’s hard to find. Maybe I should buy her some and ship it home. Well, there were some slaves who said it was an aphrodisiac, but you couldn’t put much stock in some of their tales.”

“And furs,” Alan pointed out.

“Oh, yes. Mister Twigg said the Chinese don’t have many good furs. Have to come from Russia or somewhere. Ermine, sable, glutton, mink or such’ll sell dear here in Canton. I met one of those Yankee Doodle skippers this morning. Said he’d been to the Nootka Sound on the Bering Sea. He was trading furs. Quite profitable, he told me.”

“My, you have been busy this morning,” Alan snickered.

“Them that had a little English,” Burgess allowed with a shrug as they idled against a stack of crates to watch the coolies and the French crew unload a junk that had lightered their cargo up from Whampoa Reach. “Rest of it was way over my head. Never thought I’d have to learn anything more than a little Cherokee back home. I’m lucky I can savvy just enough Hindee so Nandu and my subadar don’t cock their heads and look at me queer. I say .. . good pelts, those. That Yankee captain didn’t have better.”

“What do they sell for?” Alan asked idly, finding the spying business a dead bore as the hot afternoon wore on.

“He told me he’d get almost one hundred of their dollars for a pelt,” Burgess informed him.

“Hmm, wonder what that is in real money?” Alan mused aloud.

“I think it’s somewhere between five and six pounds sterling. But here’s the profitable part, Alan. The Nootka Sound Indians’ll swap you a prime pelt for one four-a-penny board nail!”

“S’truth!”

“Can you credit it? ‘Course, you were among the Creeks and the Seminolee.”

“Well, we weren’t doing much trading. ‘Cept for my wife.”

“Your what?.

And on their way back to the Chun Qua Factory, Alan regaled Chiswick with the tale of impregnating the Cherokee slave-girl Rabbit and being forced to purchase her from her owner for a dragoon pistol, a cartouche pouch, a shirt and a pair of deer hides.

“And there you are, paying court to my sister Caroline, and you a married man,” Burgess japed. “I should write and warn her how fickle your enthusiasms are!”