The Secret Mandarin (6 page)

When we came to cross the equator, the traditional initiation to the Southern Hemisphere was due for anyone who had not passed that way before. The ship was all excitement and the cabin boy—the only person on board who had not been that way before—was nowhere to be found.

On my first voyage it was only the ladies who had not previously crossed the line. The crew showered us with buckets of seawater on deck and we toasted our luck with Madeira.
It had been a fête of good spirits. The
Braganza’
s cabin boy, however, was not treated so kindly—he was found hiding in an empty barrel. They bound his hands with rope and then hauled him over the side. He emerged minutes later, spluttering, bruises appearing on his childish skin and bad cuts where the rope had chafed him. The crew made him drink more than he was able, holding his nose and pouring rum down his throat.

‘Enough of that!’ I said, horrified. ‘Enough. Stop it!’ But no one listened and my voice was lost in the jeers of the horde, while Robert held my arm tightly in his grip as we watched from a distance. I expect he worried that I might fling myself among the sailors and attempt a rescue.

My eyes filled with tears though I knew it was foolish. It had not been so long since I spluttered seawater myself.

‘It’s cruel,’ I said simply. ‘That boy is so young.’

‘Sometimes you are too soft, Mary,’ Robert chided me. ‘I hope you are not going to make a fuss. It will be worse for the lad if you do.’

I let it be though my blood boiled. The life at sea is hard and I did not at that time realise that being half drowned was the least of the child’s worries. Drunk and exhausted they let him fall asleep.

Later that day, alone in my cabin, I put my mind to remembering everything I had heard about Hong Kong. It was an island; I had seen that on the map. And it had not long been British.
The London Times
had been sceptical when China had handed it over. They said the place was hardly worth taking. The truth was that it sounded even worse than Calcutta—some god-awful backwater full of second-rate pioneers. As I stacked the now useless Indian books in one corner of my trunk, I resolved to ask Robert to let me read some of his books about China because, apart from this scanty impression, a Chinese embroidered
shawl the wardrobe mistress used at Drury Lane, and a beautiful lacquered cabinet William had in his London drawing room, I knew not one thing about where we were going.

My bougainvillea was already wilted and I slipped the faded bloom inside a flyleaf to press it as I packed my things away. ‘The colour was bound to dampen down,’ I thought sadly and wondered if Hong Kong might supply as steady a contingent of suitable husbands as had been expected from the Indian colony.

‘Is this the best I can hope for?’ I asked myself but, of course, there was no one to reply.

There was still a long way to travel. Even by the time we had reached the Cape of Africa we had not yet covered half the miles. It felt as if I had spent a whole year at sea. When we encountered the storm it scared me more than I expected. Thankfully, my voyage home through these waters had been uneventful, the variety of weather limited. This time the sea reared mountainously and we were closeted below decks. The petty officer escorted us to the hold. The ship was keeling so hard that it was difficult to remain on the wooden bench, though it was bolted to the floor.

‘You will not lock us in,’ I begged.

The officer did not answer me. He directed his comments to Robert.

‘Stay below decks,’ he said. ‘It is safer. Some will be swept away in this.’

Then he fastened his greatcoat and left.

We were below for hours as the weather raged. The winds were high, the water towering exactly as it had the day the
Regatta
went down. Robert paced up and down, worried only about his Ward’s cases, while every tiny creak had my heart pounding as I waited for the ship to split in two. This
time would I be lucky enough to be driven towards the shore or would I be swept further south to the open ocean? Robert hardly noticed my anxiety, such was his concern for his plants. He muttered under his breath about the ropes holding the canvas covers he had fitted in place. He worried about how low the temperature might drop or if the cases would flood. He had no sense of our mortal danger at all. From time to time a sodden deckhand passed and sent up another man to relieve him.

At last, after several hours, Robert could not bear the uncertainty. Despite the petty officer’s warning he pulled on his coat and went to check the damage. The ship pitched and rolled. The storm had not abated. I thought longingly of home. Not London, but my childhood home. I admit, it crossed my mind that should Robert be swept away I would return there. When he did come back I could see he had properly realised our peril. He was drenched to the skin, his pink flesh icy and a cut on his leg.

‘One case has smashed,’ he reported, indicating the bloody slit. He must have fallen against the broken glass. ‘The one with the bougainvillea,’ he said absentmindedly, for the plants were less important to him now he had seen the height of the storm.

At that moment there was a loud crash above us as some part of the rigging came free on deck. I screamed, my whole body taut, waiting for the force of the water to smash everything and toss us away. Robert placed a hand on each of my shoulders and shook me.

‘Stay calm, Mary,’ he directed sharply.

At first I could not speak for terror. Then I found my voice.

‘This is how it happened before,’ I said, trying to explain, ‘the ship split. That noise…’

Robert cut me off. ‘Your panic serves no one.’

‘Those who have not been stung will not fear a bee the same as those who have,’ I retorted.

He really was hardly human sometimes.

Robert took his handkerchief from his pocket and bound his wound. He took a draught from his hip flask and offered it to me. I shook my head.

‘Go on, Mary. It will help,’ he said.

I took it but did not thank him. The man was unbearable but his brandy warmed me. I could feel myself flush.

‘I know you want sympathy. But my sympathy will do you no good, Mary. We have to do our best if Captain Barraclough does not succeed in riding the storm. If we will die, we will die.’

I snorted, handing back his flask. The brandy instantly made me drowsy. I have never been one for spirits on an empty stomach and now I sank down on my knees. Low to the boards I was rocked by the movement of the ship without fearing I might fall, and, despite all my apprehensions, the lateness of the hour prevailed, exhaustion overtook me and I drifted fretfully to sleep.

When I awoke the ship was steady and Robert was gone.

‘We are safe,’ I breathed and climbed the wooden ladder onto the deck.

The sky was clear as far as I could see. It was as if there had been no storm at all. As I emerged into the scorching heat Robert was salvaging battered plants from the end case. The bougainvillea petals were smeared over the shattered glass, the soil soupy with seawater.

‘Help me, Mary,’ he directed.

My fury stung me. It was clear these stupid plants meant more to Robert than I or anyone else. I could not forgive the fact that his first comments did not concern the welfare of the crew or our good fortune in surviving the storm. I surveyed the battered plants with no pity.

‘If they will die, they will die,’ I pointed out and swept past him back to my cabin.

I was not allowed ashore at the Cape although Robert must have trusted me more by then because I was at least allowed my freedom. I sat on deck under a makeshift parasol and watched the supplies being loaded. Bare-chested men with gleaming ebony skin carried boughs of fruit on board. They brought sacks of cornmeal and barrels of palm oil on their heads while I fanned myself regally with an ostrich feather, which I had bought leaning over the side and bartering in sign language with an old Indian man on the dock who seemed fascinated by the whiteness of my arms. While the loading of the ship diverted me, I admit that the views above the bay held my attention more. The flat mountain and the verdant countryside were entrancing. I found it difficult to harbour a grudge in such a setting.

Robert repaired his case and restocked it. He chose grape vines that were delivered in terracotta pots and slotted into the empty spaces under the newly puttied glass.

‘Perhaps,’ he hazarded, ‘we shall start a vineyard or two in China. They make rice wine, you know. And five grain spirit. Now they can try a hand at a decent claret.’

This amused the captain, who had come to stand with us as Robert bedded down the vines and soaked them well.

‘Are you recovered from the storm, madam? My petty officer tells me you were distressed,’ he said.

Before I could answer this Robert stood upright.

‘My sister is now quite recovered,’ he said as if this should end the matter.

Captain Barraclough, however, persisted. ‘I can imagine how frightening such an experience must be for a lady.’

‘Tell me,’ I asked, ‘are the crew all right? Did anyone…’

The captain nodded. ‘All present. One man hurt an arm
when the rigging snapped but everyone was held fast with rope. No one overboard.’

At this news my eyes filled with tears, a vision of those long past, another crew, another captain. Barraclough looked concerned.

‘I was on the
Regatta,
’ I said simply.

Robert looked furious at my admitting this but Barraclough’s face softened into understanding. He evidently thought that here he had found the reason for my behaviour when I boarded ship.

‘I knew James Norman,’ he said, naming the captain.

There was a moment’s silence. I could think of nothing more to say. Then Barraclough bowed, having evidently decided I was not mad after all.

‘Will you do me the honour tonight of dining with myself and my officers?’

‘Thank you,’ I replied. ‘I will.’

When the captain turned back towards the poop deck, I waited for Robert to reprove me. Instead he surveyed his planting.

‘I will say nothing to cause you embarrassment,’ I promised.

‘I suppose ‘tis well enough,’ Robert nodded curtly.

That evening, like a debutante, I enjoyed dressing for dinner. I put on my finest dress and piled my hair into a bun with trailing wisps. For scent I chose lavender oil with a touch of violet. I pinched my cheeks ferociously to heighten my complexion and gazed at myself in the tiny glass with pride. To enter society again was exhilarating. I blew myself a kiss.

The tales I had heard of high jinx and drunkenness in the captain’s cabin aboard British ships proved unfounded that night. Barraclough and his two officers, Matthews and Llewelyn, were easy company and civil. All had been to China
before and were patient as I quizzed them about our destination while the very cream of our replenished supplies were served—a side of boar and some exotic fruits I had never tasted before, which were as honey in their sweetness. As the salty night air seeped into the candlelit room I simply felt happy to have conversation and company. No one mentioned the storm or my time on the
Regatta
and I was grateful for that.

‘The highlight of London on my last visit,’ Llewelyn admitted, ‘was
Hamlet
with Mr Charles Kean.’

Barraclough smiled indulgently. ‘Llewelyn is one of our artistic officers,’ he explained. ‘He takes drama very seriously.’

‘I know the production. So tell me, sir,’ I ventured, ‘how did you find the tights?’

Llewelyn shrugged his shoulders. ‘Tights, madam?’

‘Why yes. It was the chap playing Horatio. For you know, Hamlet—that is Mr Kean—is a most exacting gentleman and the young fellow, at the Royal for the first time as it would happen, lost the dark tights that were provided for his role. His “mourning garb”. He scrabbled about everywhere but could find no replacement save a scarlet pair, that were rather patched. For Horatio? Can you imagine? Knowing that each of Horatio’s scenes are played with Hamlet and that Mr Kean would not let such slovenliness pass, he visited the great man’s dressing room to explain and receive permission to wear the scarlet hose until a replacement could be procured. “Ah,” said Mr Kean when he heard the story, “I will forgive you, but” and here the great man pointed skywards, “will you be forgiven there?”

‘Actors!’ I declared as the men laughed. ‘They do take the whole business rather seriously, don’t you think? Did you as much as notice the famous tights, Mr Llewelyn? That’s what I want to know.’

Robert cut in, of course, as soon as the laughter subsided. ‘I shall tell you the story of the cultivation of the potato now,’ he announced and diverted the attention away from me just as the cheese came to the table.

Although I sighed inwardly, I do admit that the details of his tale did appear more interesting somehow at sea than they ever had in the drawing room at Gilston Road.

When the ship’s bell struck ten Robert walked me to my cabin door and bid me goodnight.

‘I enjoyed myself,’ I said. ‘Thank you for letting me attend.’

In my cabin, alone again as I pulled off my gloves and considered getting ready for bed, I heard a footstep on the corridor. I waited a moment or two as it receded and then checked the door. At the footplate Robert had left two books. One was on the subject of the Han Dynasty, the other an examination of Chinese porcelain production. I took them in greedily and flicked through the pages. It was difficult to sleep in the heat. Even in the dead of night it was humid and uncomfortable. I often read until my eyes were dry with tiredness. It was comforting that this gift meant Robert was set to forgive me a little and was entering into the spirit of the peace pact I had hoped for.

In the second tome a detail caught my eye—an unusual china plate with a star pattern. At dinner the captain had mentioned how different the stars were when he viewed them from the south and I thought to show him what I had found. Perhaps he might be able to identify the stars in the illustration. We had a long way to go together. I grabbed the book and left my cabin once more.

In the moonlight I crossed the deck and rapped on the captain’s door, not waiting for an invitation to enter. I had left him so lately that I still expected there to be company
in the room. As it turned out there was. The cabin boy. As the startled child ran past me, a flash of bare flesh and rags, it struck me that he could not be more than twelve years of age. His breeches were not fastened properly and I could smell a grown man’s sweat—the smell of sex on his skin. My blood ran cold.