Kyril Bonfiglioli - All the Tea in China

Dinner was very good, there was a sucking pig. I had never eaten pig before and — not because the Captain was watching me narrowly — I ate copiously of it, for I am not a religious man. It was entertaining, too, to watch the Second Mate gaping at Blanche Knatchbull’s bosom as she leaned over her plate across the table from him. I sympathised; indeed, I stole a glance myself from time to time. Her nipples were of an intense terra-cotta colour and large, large. After dinner, at the Captain’s request, she favoured us with a song. It was called “Sweet Afton”. She had a splendid, rich contralto voice, exactly one semi-tone flat. The young pork in my stomach would have curdled had I not been entranced by the charming way she had of filling her lungs from time to time, for her gown was flimsy for so robust a young woman. All too soon the Captain apologised for keeping us from our duties, fishing out his great golden chronometer. As we closed the cabin door, with many a thank and bow, we heard him say, “Be ready in four and one half minutes, Blanche.” No doubt the beauty of the song had inflamed his animal passions. He was a strange man. For my part, I strode the deck for a while, admiring the often-described patterns of the scend of the sea, as well as the various kinds of blue which the sky exhibited, until I was cool enough to go below, or “downstairs” as a landlobble would say. In my bunk I began to read a book of verses by three people called Bell — one of them was called Acton, I forget the others — which had appeared in the bookseller’s just before I set out on my travels. It was abominable rubbish; a trio of thwarted virgin ladies could have written it. With their unemployed left hands.

I snoozed over this trash until awakened by Peter coming off watch and telling me that we were under all plain sail and on the larboard tack, making best use of light airs from the south-west.

“Does this mean anything?” I asked querulously. He smiled amiably.

“No, not really. What I should have said is, we’re going along the English Channel — you’ve heard of that, I’m sure? — but the wind isn’t quite behind us, so we’re sort of pointing at the South coast of England for the time being.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“It isn’t a bad thing,” he said. “We’re getting along, d’you see, but in a sort of zig-zag fashion.”

“I understand you perfectly,” I lied, “but, more to the point, will there be anything for supper?” He must have heard footsteps for he flung open our cabin door dramatically and waved in the boy Orace, who was clutching a napkin-ful of hot bread under his left arm and carrying a mess-kid full of something wonderfully savoury-smelling in his right hand. As he laid out the forks and spoons I questioned the child, as a good master should.

“Have you eaten, Orace?”

“Oh, yes, indeed, Sir. I helped the doctor for two or three hours this afternoon, peeling roots and such, and he has been most generous, giving me roasted gobbets of meat, little patties and other good things. I am quite full to the brim, Sir.”

“Good,” I said, gruffly and not without a tincture of jealousy. “But, pray, what is this mess?”

“Sir, the Doctor calls it Kari: it is a stew much liked in the Indies, he says. Pieces of mutton simmered along with rare, hot spices. There is a pot of rice underneath: you must put some of this on your plate along with the Kari but, when the Kari stings your mouth, on no account must you drink water, the Doctor says, for this will worsen the stinging.”

“Get out,” I said.

This rare, fiery dish was good. At first I was alarmed when the sweat burst out of my scalp and my teeth seemed to be loosening, but Peter, who had eaten it before, laughed merrily and told me to be of good cheer: the only evil effect might be a certain flux of the bowels next morning. As I ate, the ferocity of the spices seemed to lessen and all sorts of subtle flavours made themselves manifest. It was — is — a wonderful dish and there are many forms of it, as I learned later. (You, my grandchildren, may scoff when I say that a man might do very well if he opened an eating-house in London itself offering such exotic stews; but give the matter some thought. This suggestion may be the only legacy you will receive.)

We seemed to spend an unconscionably long time in the English Channel (I call it that because I am writing in the English language, to my best ability, and because the English have more ships of war than the French); at one time we had to cast anchor or heave-to in the shelter of the lee of an island called Wight, because the wind had veered further into the west and was now what Peter called “dead foul” for our voyage.

“Dead foul?” I asked, alarmed, for the phrase seemed an ill-omened one.

“Cheer up, Karli,” he laughed, “That’s just a sailor’s term meaning it’s blowing exactly from where we’d like to sail. It’s not worth tacking long boards in the Channel, the Captain’s decided we may as well wait for the wind to change; there’s lots of things for the men to do meantime.”

There were indeed lots to do. The sailmaker was given some handy old seamen to help him overhaul the sail-locker and to make a start on some new-fangled studding-sails; the carpenter and his mates were to make a huge ballast-box which would be lashed to the deck, full of pig-iron, and moved from port to starboard when the ship needed trimming (the Captain, meanwhile, was forever being rowed around and about the ship, squinting and glaring at her trim); I was, without being ordered so to do, peering at the trim of the Captain’s wife while pretending to check the comprador ’s accounts and manifests — a hopeless task, I realised at once (the accounts, naturally) because I could tell that he was my master. A simple, gently-nurtured Jew of Holland is but a child when confronted with an experienced half-Asian comprador. I wasted no time on trying to find his small deceits — I sleep more easily without a knife between my ribs. I had already, quite against my will, earned his grave dislike when the Captain, seeking for light tasks with which I might earn my supernumerary officer’s status, had ordered me to take over the keys of the slop-chest from the comprador. The slop-chest was in fact a small room or lazarette ’tween-decks, from which, under my eagle eye, a bosun’s-mate (whom they jokingly called the “pusser”) dispensed shirts, canvas trowsers, kerchiefs, chunks of pigtail-twist tobacco, soap, lucifer matches, bandages and other comforts such as tiny packages of tea, coffee and sugar; all set against the sailors’ pay-warrants. The slop-chest did but little business so early in the voyage, for all of those tarry-breeks who could afford to do so had stocked up with such things before they came aboard, but I was shocked at the prices — and I am not one who is easily shocked at prices, as many people know to their cost. Being young and fearless, I sought an interview with the Captain — this also gave me an opportunity to eye Blanche, who seemed never wholly to close the door to her sleeping-cabin, nor ever to be more than thinly-clad during her flittings to and fro across the aperture.

The Captain listened with a face difficult to read whilst I made my case against the exploitation of his sailor-folk. My eloquence was, I need not say, marred from time to time by the fleeting apparition of Blanche across the half-opened door. When I had finished he sat for some minutes with his bearded chin sunk upon his breast. I waited respectfully, hoping that he had not fallen asleep. At last he broke silence, gave judgment.

“No piss-quick, Mr Van Cleef,” he said, “that’s an indulgence I only allow myself in port. But you’ll take a glass of schnapps with me.” It was not a question. The schnapps was good and fiery, fiery.