China Flyer (9 page)

The
China
Flyer
approached Macao through a channel less than a mile wide, guarded each side by a squat fort. The roadstead beyond was crowded with boxy fishing junks, European merchantmen tilting at anchor, sampans with central awnings. There were canoes and rafts among the sampans, paddled by men, women and children noisily hawking fruit, vegetables or poultry, shrilling their
availability
to do laundry, sew clothing or provide love.

Lothar Schiller stood on board the
China
Flyer,
sipping a cup of bitter tea in the dank morning as he appraised the ramshackle wooden houses and rickety bamboo moorings dotting the swamps. The gilded crosses crowning the distant Catholic missions did nothing to alter his impression of Macao as one of the ugliest, most uninviting settlements he had ever seen.

A tapping against the deck attracted his attention. He turned but did not immediately recognise the man
approaching
him.

Attired in a raspberry-silk frock-coat and powdered wig, George Fanshaw wobbled towards Schiller in high-heeled court shoes, tapping an imperious ivory staff against the deck as he walked.

Mein
Gott!
Does this fool think he looks like a gentleman? Schiller fought to suppress a howl of laughter as Fanshaw advanced towards him in the foppish outfit.

Flicking a lace handkerchief, Fanshaw ordered, ‘Neither you, Mr Schiller, nor the crew shall go ashore in Macao.'

‘How long do we stay here?' asked Schiller, and forced
himself to add, ‘—Herr Fanshaw?' He must try to remain respectful until Fanshaw had paid him his money.

‘I go now to seek the Hoppo's permission to proceed up the Pearl River.' Raising his hand, the wrist heavy with ruffled lace, Fanshaw pointed to a copper-roofed building across the harbour. ‘I'll need a boat to row me to their offices, Mr Schiller.'

Schiller nodded, muttering, ‘Aye, sir,' and turned to execute the order. He had little reason or desire to linger in conversation with Fanshaw.

‘Do not allow anybody aboard ship in my absence,' Fanshaw called after him.

Schiller paused. ‘Not even Manchu officials?'

Fanshaw patted a large pocket on his frock-coat. ‘I am going to take care of the officials now.'

Schiller understood. ‘I hope you save something for me.'

‘You'll get your share when we reach Whampoa, Mr Schiller.'

More loudly, he called, ‘Make certain no enemies come aboard ship, do you hear? You're to consider everybody an enemy, understand?'

Schiller's tea had turned cold by the time he returned to his position. Emptying the cup over the side, he saw the oarsmen bending their backs in unison as they rowed Fanshaw through the harbour congestion.

Watching the wherry move through the sampans, rafts and canoes, he wondered: Did Fanshaw have reason to worry about enemies attacking him? His biggest fear was still that the East India Company would send the Bombay Marine after him.

Schiller faced the grim truth of his situation: whether he liked Fanshaw or not, he would have to protect him against any and all rivals if he was ever going to get paid.

At the age of ten, Lothar Schiller had been hired out by his father as a cabin boy to the Prussian merchant ship, the
Melanchthon.
After sailing back and forth from the North Sea to the Baltic, he learned on his return to Hamburg that his father had died in his long absence, and that his mother had married a Hanoverian apothecary, leaving no word of where her son could find them.

Lothar Schiller had grown up under many flags. Hanoverian. Austrian. Prussian. He had lived, too, in many towns. Bremen. Cassel. Hamburg. Consequently, at the age of thirteen he felt no loyalty to any king or country, only a kinship to the race whose language he spoke—German.

Finding himself homeless, Schiller had lied about his age in order to fight as a mercenary foot soldier with the French Army commander, Maurice de Saxe, against the Duke of Cumberland's Allied Army in Flanders. Knowing little about the War of the Austrian Succession, and not caring to know, he only worried about the money pouch he would receive as his soldier's pay.

Attached to the Irish Brigade under de Saxe, Schiller met British soldiers of fortune who taught him his first words of English. He learned, too, that careers could be made in Europe's professional armies.

Fired by the hope of joining such a force, he travelled to England, but there was no market for his services at that time. Instead, he signed on with a succession of merchant ships plying between England, Scotland, and Denmark. As much at home on the sea as he had been on land, he quickly graduated from deck hand to helmsman's mate, making friends with men below decks as well as with young officers.

Then came a chance to sail to Madras aboard the HEIC Indiaman,
Castle
Bukeley;
Schiller seized it, secretly hoping to find work in India as a mercenary soldier in the struggle between the French and the English. He disliked the
orderliness of Company merchantmen and longed for the rough-and-tumble life of soldiers for hire.

Although the Seven Years War had not officially ended in Europe, fighting had ceased in India by the time Schiller arrived at Fort St George. Rather than return to England on the Indiaman's home voyage, he signed on with Company ships trading between the East Indian islands.

Work proved to be scarce, an increasing number of Lascar sailors taking jobs usually reserved for European seamen. Schiller spent months unemployed, scouting for work in Madras's Black Town.

In February of this year, he had heard a rumour of employment being offered by an Englishman organising a private venture to China. He had several meetings with Fanshaw, convincing him of his ability both to command a ship and to keep silent about the voyage. The promise of gold influenced his decision to work for the unlikeable man.

The harbour noises of Macao brought Schiller's attention back to the present. Looking in the direction where Fanshaw's boat had disappeared through the crowded sampans, he regretted having taken this job on the
China
Flyer.
The advantage of being a mercenary soldier was that a man seldom met his employer; it was easy to fight for a king you neither loved nor hated. But Schiller knew that he had actually come to detest George Fanshaw.

Six days north of Borneo, Jud sighted a mountain peak breaking through the low-hanging morning clouds.

As the
Huma
skimmed across the westerly edge of the South China Sea on the briskly holding winds, a rocky coastline became visible off the larboard beam. Excitement about a landfall brought men running to the side and, as they watched, twin mountain peaks appeared on the
north-west
horizon.

On the quarter-deck, Cheng-So Gilbert told Horne, ‘The Chinese call those two mountains—' He held a stubby finger to either side of his round head. ‘—asses' ears.'

Jingee spotted boats clustered against the shoreline.

The Sulu pirates still fresh in Babcock's mind, he asked, ‘Damn! Do we have to run out the guns?'

Studying the vessels through his spyglass, Horne saw that the centre of each long, low boat was spanned by a low cabin.

‘Sampans.' He passed the spyglass to Groot. ‘Totally undisturbed by our presence.'

Cheng-So Gilbert agreed. ‘The Chinese have little curiosity about foreigners. They're probably fishermen out for the day's early catch.'

Small islands, clusters of grey rock stubbled with pale green moss, dotted the coastline as the wind carried the frigate on its north-eastern course towards the Pearl River estuary. As the sun rose higher in the east, Horne estimated that they would soon be approaching the river mouth and decided that it was time to change his clothes.
Governor Pigot had strongly impressed upon him the importance of turning out properly attired on this mission. He must look like a true officer of the Honourable East India Company when he presented himself to the Hoppo in Macao.

Fresh linen, brightly polished boots, immaculate breeches and frock-coat awaited Horne in his cabin. A basin of hot water stood ready and, tying back his hair, he began to shave, inwardly dreading the loss of the freedom he had enjoyed in the past weeks. Bare-footed, his shirt open to the waist, he had basked in the day-to-day comfort of being a Bombay ‘Buccaneer' rather than a stuffy, overdressed ‘Marine'.

The days when they had been becalmed, even the brief but threatening captivity by the Sulu islanders, in retrospect seemed preferable to dressing in his uniform and
confronting
the Imperial representatives of the Manchu court. But, then, had not the happiest periods of his life always been the journeys between two ports? Seldom the
departure
, certainly not the arrival.

Planning how best to present himself to the Hoppo, Horne decided to take only Cheng-So Gilbert ashore with him. A personal escort of Marines would be impressive, certainly, but only if they were smartly dressed in uniforms decorated with gold braid and high-standing collars. Horne's five prized men would impress the Chinese as being nothing more than a pack of tatterdemalions in their bare feet and
dungri
trousers. The Lord only knew what the arrogant Portuguese would make of the motley Marine unit arriving in Macao. Horne hoped to avoid all contact with them.

There were practical reasons for not taking the five Marines ashore. This was not the end of the mission and, needing a crew for the return voyage to India, Horne wanted every Marine and seasoned hand to guard the recently recruited men from abandoning ship. The chances
of supplementing his crew in China were negligible.

A knock on the door disturbed Horne's meandering thoughts. Turning from the small looking-glass where he had been studying the results of his razor, he opened the door and was surprised to see Jingee standing outside.

The morning meal had been served. There had been ample hot water for shaving. And Horne was certainly not like the officers of His Majesty's Royal Navy, who required a man to help them dress.

Bowing, the diminutive Tamil asked, ‘Is everything to your satisfaction, Captain sahib?'

‘Perfectly, Jingee.'
What
the
devil
…?

Jingee's small black eyes darted past Horne into the cabin. ‘Shall I give your coat one last brushing, Captain sahib?'

‘No, Jingee. It's quite satisfactory.'
What
does
he
want
?

Dropping his eyes to his bare feet, Jingee hesitated, ‘Captain sahib … Will you be wishing
me
to go ashore with you in Macao?'

‘No. I'll take Mr Gilbert.'

‘Oh …' Jingee's eyes remained on the cabin floor.

He was jealous. Of course, that was it. How stupid not to have noticed the signs before now. Jingee prided himself on being secretary, personal servant,
dubash
to Horne. But since leaving Madras it had been Cheng-So Gilbert who had spent long hours with Horne on the quarter-deck and at dinner, explaining Chinese customs, commenting on the charts, describing ancient ways and traditions.

Determined to dispel all this foolishness, Horne ordered firmly, ‘You shall stay aboard ship, Jingee, while we secure a pilot to take us up river.'

‘Yes, Captain sahib.'

Horne explained considerately, ‘I want you to see that no man goes ashore, Jingee. We cannot completely trust our new recruits from Fort St George.'

‘You're always most cautious, Captain sahib.'

‘You can also add to our stores, Jingee, if you see
anything that might make the crew's table more enjoyable. They deserve a treat.'

‘I have money, Captain sahib, from what you gave me in Madras.'

‘If there's any left from that, you might see if you can get some wine for my table.'

Disheartened, Jingee turned and went up the
companionway
.

The rowing-boat inched through the press of harbour craft, Cheng-So Gilbert crouching behind Horne, pointing to the tiered roofs of the Portuguese Governor's Palace, the ancient Monkey Shrine surrounded by a tangled swamp, the golden crosses of the Jesuit mission gleaming high above the fetid harbour.

The Portuguese had established themselves in Macao two hundred years earlier, explained Cheng-So Gilbert, interrupting his historical monologue to shriek at the vendors paddling alongside Horne's boat. They carried bamboo crates of live chickens, earthenware casks of rice beer, multi-shaped baskets of white gourds, bean cakes, pastries, long, strange-looking cabbages.

More sampans crowded the distant docks; the din of squealing pigs, barking dogs and chattering voices floated across the grey-black water. Beyond the boats, lines of rickety hovels faced the harbour, a few of the buildings fronted with English signs, among them, ‘The British Inn'.

Macao was crowded and dirty and insalubrious. Horne wondered how much of this congestion and filth was intrinsically Chinese, how much the influence of Portuguese settlers.

The oarsmen had propelled them across the
narrow-mouthed
harbour and were approaching a squat building
roofed with copper. Cheng-So Gilbert tapped Horne's shoulder, drawing his attention to a column of soldiers marching along a wide pier; the end was dominated by six green bronze cannon facing the inlet's mouth.

‘The Office of the Imperial Hoppo,' explained Gilbert and ordered the oarsmen to make for the brass-inlaid steps extending from the pier down into the murky water. The column of marching soldiers had halted and at the top of the steps stood an official, tawny face impassive beneath a small cap fastened under his chin by a black silk cord.

After an exchange with the officer, Gilbert motioned Horne to precede him up the steps.

Horne grabbed the hand rail and stepped out of the boat, surprised that the officer did not offer a greeting, not a flicker of salutation. Was this a hint of the reception awaiting him in the office beyond?

Taking a deep breath, he looked towards the end of the pier and saw a pair of tall black lacquered doors, flanked by guards in long black cloaks, their hands resting on the hilts of gently curved swords. Behind him, the other guards fell into position.

Horne walked authoritatively towards the doors, the leather heels of his boots echoing on the wooden pier, while Cheng-So Gilbert's black satin slippers softly
pad-pad
-padded at a respectful distance behind him.

The lacquered doors opened as Horne approached. Passing into an entrance hall, he was pleased when Gilbert came up beside him and called to two men simply garbed in plain robes, approaching from the opposite direction.

Horne produced his documents from the pocket of his frock-coat. Cheng-So Gilbert took them and, bowing, passed them to the robed men.

‘Captain Horne, you may wait here.' He pointed to a sliding rice-paper door.

The chamber beyond had no furniture. The lighting came from a window high on a white wall. The only
decoration was a Manchu dragon painted on gold silk.

Alone in this spartan room, Horne paced the wooden floor as he considered for the first time the possibility of the Hoppo refusing the
Huma
permission to proceed up river to Whampoa. How should he plead his case? Could he turn to the Portuguese for support? Had other East India Company ships arrived from England before the monsoon? Would they be in Whampoa?

Horne disliked the total impotence that travellers suffered in strange lands. Even after being based in India for eight years, he frequently felt isolated there by the barriers of language and custom.

Compared with China, however, India seemed bright, colourful and welcoming. China reminded him of the few Chinese water-colour paintings he had seen—pale,
mannered
, intrinsically cold.

Another difference was the people. Indians were by nature an out-going lot, anxious to meet foreigners, quick to exchange stories and customs, and to laugh. But the Chinese appeared to have none of that Asian curiosity. Did they truly consider Europeans to be barbarians? If so, had it always been this way, or only since the recent overthrow of the Ming Dynasty by the northern Manchu? Were there benefits from such aloofness?

Did the Chinese insulation protect them from foreign domination? India was eager to sample new and different ways; but perhaps that was why foreigners like the East India Company could make headway into the country's very government. Was India vulnerable because of her people's genuine friendliness?

Horne wondered if he would have to return here tomorrow … and the next day … and the next. Would he be kept waiting to see some oriental martinet who would scrutinise him and ask him to repeat answers to irrelevant questions?

The clank of metal sounded in the distance.

The rice-paper door glided smoothly to one side and Cheng-So Gilbert entered the room, both hands tucked into the wide sleeves of his jacket, round face beaming.

‘Will he see me now?' Horne disliked the anxious sound in his voice.

Gilbert bowed respectfully. ‘Your business is settled, Captain Horne.'

‘Settled?'

‘I have learnt the answer to your question.'

‘The
China
Flyer
's
arrived?'

‘Eleven days ago. The Hoppo gave the chop to an Englishman named George Fanshaw to progress up river to Whampoa.'

So he was on the right trail. But what about the date? Fanshaw had reportedly left Madras in March. What had happened in the intervening months? Why had the
China
Flyer
arrived in Macao only eleven days ago?

Stepping aside, Cheng-So Gilbert bowed to Horne, motioning him out of the room.

As Horne emerged into the outer hall, he saw no armed escorts waiting for him, no emissaries to lead him to an inner office.

He looked back at Gilbert. ‘When does the Hoppo interview me?'

Reaching into one sleeve, Gilbert produced Horne's documents, along with an unfamiliar scroll, saying, ‘The Hoppo's satisfied by what he read. You have received Imperial permission to proceed up the Pearl River.'

‘What about the
cumshaw
?
The gift?'

Cheng-So Gilbert pointed through the open doors. ‘The Hoppo's guard have already begun attending to that matter.'

Outside, Horne saw three war junks surrounding the
Huma
across the harbour. Was that why they had kept him waiting so long, to unload their gift?

‘What's happening?' he demanded.

‘The Hoppo's sent his ships to collect the
cumshaw,
Captain Horne.'

‘But I gave no permission for anyone to board my ship.'

‘Captain Horne, the Hoppo takes no more than his share.'

‘Mr Gilbert, did you give the Hoppo's men permission to go aboard the
Huma
?'

‘Captain Horne, this is China. Nobody has to give the Imperial Hoppo permission.'

Horne roared, ‘How in bloody hell do they know what I want to give them?'

Cheng-So Gilbert explained patiently. ‘You seek
permission
to proceed to Whampoa. The Hoppo granted you his chop. For that privilege he takes a
cumshaw
which is tallied by the percentage of the ship's cargo and the extent to which he wants the
Huma
searched. The guards assured me they would not be aboard long.' He smiled. ‘That is the Manchu way, Captain Horne.'

Horne could not hide his anger, but he saw the irony in the situation. He had dreaded today's interview with the Imperial officers and now, when he learned that he did not have to meet anyone, he was losing his temper. But he felt he was in the right. He had heard endless stories about Manchu etiquette, Manchu protocol, Manchu formality; but they had stuck him in a waiting-room while they sacked his ship!

‘Excuse me, Mr Gilbert,' he said, ‘but in my opinion, the Sulu pirates were more civil towards us than the … Manchu!'