Kyril Bonfiglioli - All the Tea in China

The men shuffled and mumbled; a few of the younger ones sidled up the gang-plank of the Martha Washington , the rest put their heads together then went aboard the John Coram.

I looked at Orace. He was quaking a little.

“Be of good cheer,” I said kindly, confidently, “no one shall hurt you.” I was young then and foolish, you see, foolish.

We went aboard. At the break of the poop we were met by a great, coarse bear-like man who addressed me in a strange accent which I later learned was that of the former American Colonies of Great Britain. He was wearing a sort of uniform and so I touched the brim of my hat in a civil fashion, at which he sketched out a gesture towards the brim of his.

“Carolus Van Cleef,” I said. “Calling on Captain Knatchbull. With my servant.”

“He’s swearing in new hands,” he said curtly. “Wait here.” I thought about that. It did not seem to me a courteous reply.

“No,” I said. “I shall come back tomorrow. Pray tell him that I called.” With that I turned on my heel.

“Just a minute, brother,” he called, “don’t be so all-fired tetchy; suppose you go to Dirty Annie’s on the wharf there and get a mouthful of maw-wallop — Captain Knatchbull will be free in half an hour, I guess.”

“Very well,” I said. “Thankyou.”

Dirty Annie’s was a filthy shanty on the wharf-side: it was full of rough sailor-folk. I ordered some “Blind Scouse” for that was what was chalked on the “Ordinary” board — it proved to be a tasty and nourishing sort of vegetable stew — and some porter. There was no porter, I had to drink something called “cold four”, a thin, sour ale; I gave most of it to Orace to drink with his bread and cheese, telling him that it would make a man of him. He drank it gratefully, he was a good boy.

When we returned to the John Coram the American officer — he was, it turned out, the First Mate and named Lubbock — greeted me with a grudging civility and shewed me into the Captain’s cabin, telling Orace to remain outside the door. The cabin was sumptuously furnished; a comprador with a brown face but splendid livery gave me a chair and a glass of brown sherry or perhaps Marsala; I was young and green, I could not tell the difference. After a little while the inner door opened and the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life came in. Her breasts were trained on me like twin carronades, her hair was the colour of a lion’s mane, her mouth was a moist invitation to sin and her eyes were languorous, drowsy. My loins stirred. It seemed an age before I could collect myself and rise to my feet: she did not seem to mind, she was, perhaps, used to such an effect. Indeed, it may even have pleased her.

“Carolus Van Cleef,” I mumbled, bowing stiffly.

“I am Mrs Knatchbull. You may not call me Blanche, for you are to be only a supernumerary officer, I believe.” Her accent was not quite British, nor were her mannerisms.

“How do you do?” I said.

“Captain Knatchbull will be with you presently,” she said, “he is praying just now. He always prays after he has had his will of me; I wonder why that is?” With great sang-froid I offered her a chair and watched entranced the sinuosity with which she settled her person into it. Her great, violet eyes were fixed on me, as though awaiting an answer to her question.

“The weather is fine, is it not,” I said carefully, “for the time of the year?”

“Why do you speak of the weather?” she asked. “You are clearly not an Englishman. Who else remarks on these matters?”

I thought of saying “hrrumph” but could not, at that moment, command the pronunciation of the word. I was saved by the opening of the inner door and the entry of the small, bearded Captain.

“Carolus Van Cleef,” I said, rising to my feet again. “Supernumerary officer.”

“Queen Anne’s dead and her bum’s cold,” he retorted. “Have you any other news from the Indies?”

Clearly, this was an English joke.

“No, Captain,” I said, “except that I have come aboard.”

“Don’t trifle with me, Sir, and you call me ‘Sir’, not ‘Captain’.”

“Yes, Sir,” I said.

“No, damme! You don’t say ‘yes’, you say ‘aye aye’!”

“Aye aye,” I said, anxious to please in so small a matter.

“SIR!” he shouted.

“Sir,” I agreed. He simmered awhile, like a kedgeree-pot.

“You shall have a drink with me,” he said at last.

“Aye aye, Sir,” I said.

“Boy! Bring a jug of piss-quick, and look sharp!”

In the twinkling of an eye a smartly-liveried Chinese boy appeared with a tray. “Piss-quick” proved to be gin with marmalade stirred in and topped up with hot water. It was not very good to drink, but better than Dirty Annie’s “cold four”. Indeed, at that moment the Captain cocked an ear, leaped up and strode to the door.

“Your servant’s spewed across two square yards of my deck!” he thundered. “Fined two shillings, Mr Van Cleef!” And then, in an even greater voice: “Mr Mate! The watch is idling, get this deck swabbed if any of your quinsied cripples and quim-stickers’ touts are on their feet!” He had a fine command of language, I could not understand one half of what he said, but it was fine to hear, fine.

“Now, Sir,” he said, swallowing his glass of “piss-quick” and munching the pieces of orange-peel, “I hear you’re ready to take up a piece of my share in this venture. How’s this?”

“I have heard you well-spoken of, Sir,” I said carefully, “and that your ship is a fast and happy one. I have decided to join the venture, subject to my being satisfied that what I have heard is correct.”

“Satisfied?” he cried, raising his voice thunderously again (I could not understand how so little a man could command so great a volume of sound). “ Satisfied , Sir? Does it not occur to you that this interview is so that I can determine whether I am satisfied with you? ”

I thought this over carefully for in those days I was not sure how clever I was.

“Of course, Sir,” I said at last, “but you will appreciate that the money I am venturing is the whole of my fortune and I am sure that you admire prudence in so young a man as myself … who was once an entered apprentice.”

He made that English “hrrumphing” noise which I have never properly mastered, and poured himself another glass of the “Piss-quick”. Perhaps, in pouring none for me, he was admiring a young man’s prudence: for my part, I applied myself to finishing the remainder of the brown sherry which the comprador had poured for me ten minutes before.

The way I had phrased my remark about having been taught prudence was tentatively Freemasonic. Guardedly, he asked me another question. I breathed a sigh of relief to the Great Architect and answered, translating freely from the Dutch. He sent his wife out of the cabin and invited me to share a certain word with him. I demurely suggested he begin, as I had been taught, and we lettered-and-halved it. He did not like my Dutch version of the last letter, so I wrote it down on the corner of a scrap of paper. This satisfied him, especially when I tore off the scrap of paper on which I had written and swallowed it. This made him a little benign, although no less severe, and it soon became evident that he had made great progress in certain things and had passed under a certain architectural feature whilst I, because of my youth, had still to make my Mark. I hope I make myself clear but if I do not it is of no possible interest to you.

He drank some more of his nasty drink, patted his beard dry with a great pocket-handkerchief and gazed at me sternly and a little benignly.