“Would you have heaved to when they made to drown those poor beggars, Fred?” I asked.
He hesitated. “I guess,” says he, and looked at me. “That’s why you’re aboard, huh?”
I nodded. “You see, they daren’t offer us violence – not after the Arrow affair. And they’ve no real right to stop an opium boat – but they’ll use every trick they know to bluff you, and once they’re aboard, and you don’t speak Chinese, and they outnumber you ten to one – well, they can sort of confiscate your cargo – oh, and release it later, no doubt, with apologies … and lo and behold, your chests of first-rate chandoo have been replaced, hey presto! by a ton of opium dross. See?”
“Bastards!” was all he said. “Him an’ his goddam kite!”
“Speaking of which – see those butterflies? Somewhere up near the Second Bar an active little Chink with a spy-glass is taking note of ’em – which means that round about the Six Flats we’ll meet another deputation, with a much more important Mandarin on board. It may be politic to present him with a couple of chests, rather than risk any embarrassment.”
“How’s that?” His voice was sharp. “Give him some of our opium?”
“What’s sixteen quid out of sixteen thousand?” I wondered.
He was silent for a moment. “I guess,” says he, and then: “Six Flats is up beyond the First Bar, isn’t it?”
I said it was, and that we ought to be there tomorrow noon, and after a little more talk he said he’d better take post on the second lorcha for the night, as we had agreed, so that both vessels were under proper control.
“Remember – keep close up, and don’t stop for anything,” says I, and he swore he wouldn’t. He didn’t bother with a small boat, but just dropped over the side and trod water until the second lorcha came by, and he scrambled aboard. A good boy that, thinks I; green, but steady. By Gad, I didn’t know the half of him, did I?
The boatmen were cooking their evening meal forward, but I’d brought cold fowl and beef, and after a capital meal and a bottle of Moselle while the sun went down I was in splendid trim for my Hong Kong girl, who was sitting by the stern-rail, singing high-pitched and combing her long hair. We went down to the tiny cabin, and were buckled to in no time; a fine, fat little romp she was, too, taking a great pleasure in her work and giggling and squealing as we thrashed about, but no great practitioner of the gentle art. But you don’t expect Montez or Lily Langtry for sixpence, which was what I was paying her; she was a crude, healthy animal, and when I’d played myself out with her she retired with a flask of the promised samshu and I settled down to my well-earned repose.
She was back at first light, though, crawling in beside me and grunting as she rubbed her boobies across my face, which is better than an alarm clock any day. I laid hold, and was preparing to set about her when I realised that she was trembling violently, and the pretty pug face was working with a strange, ugly tic.
“What the devil’s the matter?” says I, still half-asleep, and she twitched and sniffed at me.
“Wantee piecee pipe!” says she, whimpering. “Mass’ gimme! Piecee pipe!”
“Oh, lord!” says I. “Get one from the boatmen, can’t you?” She wanted her opium, and I could see she’d be no fun until she’d had it. But the boatmen hadn’t any, or wouldn’t give it, apparently, and she began to blubber and twitch worse than ever, sobbing “Piecee pipe!” and pulling the pipe from her loin-cloth and shoving it at me. I slapped her across the cabin, and she lay there crying and shivering; I’d have let her lie, but her first awakening of me had put me in the mood for a gallop, and it occurred to me that with a few puffs of black smoke inside her she might be stimulated to a more interesting performance than she’d given the previous night. It was only a step under the companion to where half a ton of the best chandoo was to be had; Josiah would never grudge a skewerful in such a good cause, I was sure.
So I growled at her to get her lamp going and bring her pin, and she came panting as I pushed through the chick-screen to the long main hold which ran the full length of the lorcha under its flush deck. There were the chests, and while she twitched and whined at my elbow I rummaged for a handspike and stuck it under the nearest lid. She had her little lamp lit, and was holding out the skewer in a trembling paw – as I said before, she was a most unlikely-looking guardian angel.
I levered the lid up with a splintering of cheap timber, and pulled back the corner of the oilskin cover beneath. And then, as I recall, I said “Holy God!” and came all over thoughtful as I contemplated the contents of the chest. For if I hadn’t had Mrs Phoebe Carpenter’s word for it that those contents were high-grade prepared Patna opium, I’d have sworn that they were Sharps carbines. All neatly packed in grease, too.
a Fast crabs and scrambling dragons were opium-running craft.
b See Appendix I.
c Heavy muskets mounted on tripods and worked by two men.
There was a time, in my callow youth, when the discovery that I was running not opium but guns would have had me bolting frantically for the nearest patch of timber, protesting that it was nothing to do with me, constable, and the chap in charge would be along in a moment. For opium, into China, was a commonplace if not entirely respectable commodity, whereas firearms, into anywhere, are usually highly contraband, and smuggling ’em is as often as not a capital offence. But if twenty years of highly active service had taught me anything, it was that there is a time to flee in blind panic, and a time to stand fast and think. Given the leisure, I daresay I’d have replaced that chest lid, slapped the slut who was staring wildly at me, and taken a turn on deck to reflect, thus:
Had Mrs Carpenter spun me a web of yarn, and were she and dear Josiah aware that their cargo consisted of the very latest repeating weapons? Undoubtedly; Josiah had supervised the loading of the chests, and what he knew his wife knew, too. Very good, to whom should a God-fearing British clergyman and his wife be smuggling guns in China? Not to any British recipient, and certainly not to the Manchoo Imperials – which left the Taiping rebels. Utterly incredible – until one reflected that there were Taiping enthusiasts among our people, and none warmer than those clergy who believed that the “long-haired devils” were devout Christians fighting the good fight against the Imperial heathen. Were Carpenter and his wife sufficiently demented for that? Presumably; if you’re religious you can believe anything. Well, then, if they wanted to supply Sharps carbines to the Taipings, why not ship ’em up the Yangtse to Nanking, where the Taipings were in force, instead of to Canton, where there wasn’t a Taiping within a hundred miles? Simple: Nanking was under siege, the Yangtse was a damned dangerous river, and they’d have had to run the stuff through Shanghai, where there’d have been a far greater risk of detection.
But, dammit, how could they hope to smuggle guns into Canton, where our garrison and gunboats were thick as fleas, and the chests would have to be opened at the factories? That was plainly impossible – so they didn’t intend the lorchas ever to reach Canton. No, if their skipper turned eastward into the web of tributaries and creeks short of the First Bar, to some predetermined rendezvous … a Taiping mule-train waiting on a deserted river-bank … off-load and away up-country … why, it could be done as safe as sleep. And poor old Flashy; whom