"After the mercury cure, sir, I hope I never cross the hawse of another woman in my life!" Hogue groaned.
"Nonsense. Just fother a patch over your hull before you hoist battle flags, Mister Hogue. See Archibald and buy yourself an eight-shilling condom. Good as any from the Green Canister in Half Moon Street back home."
"Well, 'cept for being poxed to her eyebrows, she was a cunning little wench, sir," Hogue had to admit, albeit sheepishly.
After four more circumambulations of the deck, they returned to the telescope and made a great dumb-show of studying all the ships within sight through the thinning fog, always coming back to La Malouine. Nothing stirred but the crewmen of her night anchor-watch. Alan saw a French master's mate take off his hat, scratch his scalp and give out a great yawn so wide it was almost painful to watch, which made his own jaws ache at first, then yearn to gape in boredom as well.
"Doesn't much resemble a pirate, does she, sir?" Hogue whispered as he sat down on one of the signal-flag lockers to enjoy his tea.
"Can't imagine her catching an Indiaman, much less cowing one with her little battery," Alan agreed. They'd been rowed past the ship several times on errands or visits to other vessels farther down the Reach. La Malouine mounted eight-pounders fore and aft as chase-guns, and iron twelve-pounders on either beam-only sixteen of those in total, too. There were no secret lower-deck gun ports such as Telesto had, either. And La Malouine's waterline was so bearded with marine growth the tendrils seemed to wave at them in passing, no matter that she was coppered to slow the weeds down. Flying everything but her master's shirt and breeches, it was doubtful she'd attain nine knots in a full hurricane.
"Hmmm," Alan muttered as a native sampan came sculling out of the fog behind their quarry. "Damn early for a social call."
Hogue took the eyepiece while Alan retrieved his own mug of tea and sipped it with pleasure. The wardroom servant had made it almost boiling hot, and thickly laced with molasses.
"Sir," Hogue hissed. "He's bound for her. They're hailing the anchor-watch now. Hollo, here's a new'un!"
"Let me."
There was a European in the sampan, dressed in white shirt and black breeches, white stockings and woven sennet hat. As Lewrie watched, he stood up, grabbed the man-ropes and ascended the boarding ladder battens with a lithe, easy grace. Alan got the impression at that range of reddish hair, remarkably pale skin and a faint smudge of beard on the stranger's lean face.
"Yes, he is a new visitor," Alan mused. "Do you keep an eye on him, Mister Hogue. This fog should blow off soon. Perhaps by the time he departs, we may spy which ship he came from. I'll be below shaving. Sing out if you discover anything."
"Aye aye, sir," Hogue replied with a small nod, and the sigh of the permanently put-upon. Well, bedamned to him, Alan thought, as he made his way forward to the ladders that led to the quarterdeck; he's a midshipman, even in disguise. Hogue ought to know by now to expect the shitten chores! Snot-nosed younkers, he sneered. God save me from lazy midshipmen!
Hogue was waiting upon him when he*returned to the deck, as were the rest of the ship's officers. Eight bells had rung, ending the middle watch, and "All Hands" had been piped to begin the ship's day. "Rope-Yarn Sunday" or not, the decks still had to be scrubbed down.
Wash-deck pumps were being rigged, and the hands were milling about, rolling up the voluminous legs of their slop-trousers above their knees, holystones ready to begin wet-sanding the decks. The captain, Twigg and Wythy, Brainard and Choate were all present on the quarterdeck. Percival and McTaggart were forward, supervising the bosun and his mates.
"A good morrow to you, Mister Lewrie," Ayscough grunted, looking no more thrilled to be up and about at that hour than anyone else.
"Captain, sir," Alan replied, doffing his hat.
"Yon visitor aboard La Malouine" Ayscough continued, sounding hoarse as a bear with a head cold. "Seen him before, have you?"
"No, sir."
"Well, Mister Hogue informs us he departed not a quarter-hour after he came aboard her," Ayscough harrumphed. "Went back down-river to another vessel. Still foggy, but she seemed to be about the fourth or fifth, somewhere thereabouts."
"That would be either Salem Witch, or Poisson D'Or, sir," Alan said, recalling the rough chart of the anchorage they'd sketched over the last few weeks. "A Massachusetts Yankee. Lots of them were privateersmen during the war, sir. Maybe this one's not yet given up the trade."
"And what of this Poisson D'Or?" Twigg demanded.
"Newly arrived, sir," Choate stuck in. "She's a small three-master. About six or seven hundred tons burthen, she looked to be. Arrived just at the end of September, sir. Suppose she got her name from her paint-work. Ochre hull picked out in white along the bulwarks and gunwale. Black chain-wale, same's most ships. Poisson D'Or. Gold Fish, d'you see?" He concluded with a sharp laugh.
They did, but didn't find the play on words as amusing as Choate did, which forced him to utter a cough and harrumph of his own to sober his thoughts.
"You're the only one that's seen her so far, I take it?" Twigg pressed. "What did you think? How was she built? Manned and armed?"
"Well, Mister Twigg, sir, she's about the same size as one of their new frigates," Choate continued. "Were she a French royal ship, I'd take her for a thirty-two-gunned Fifth Rate. Pretty fine-cut entry and fore-foot, so she's not that old. Some of their latest construction. She had what looked to be eight-pounders for chase-guns. What else she mounted, I couldn't tell; the ports were shut. But when I was rowed past her, she was unloading cargo, and I didn't see over one hundred hands, all told."
"Were she a civilian ship, she'd not need sixty hands in peacetime," Mister Brainard speculated. "In these waters, that'd be about average for a crew. And, if Mister Choate says she's fairly new, she'd be fast as the very devil, just like most Frog ships that're frigate-built. Outrun pirates faster'n you could say 'Jack-Ketch.' "
"What else did you espy, Mister Choate?" Twigg grunted. "What impression did she make upon you?"
"Well, sir, she was set up good as 'Bristol Fashion.' Looked to be a pretty ship." Choate shrugged in confusion. "Saucy, sort of. Hands were dressed neat. Hull was coppered and her waterline was pretty clean, like she was recently careened and breamed."
"I see," Twigg rasped, pulling at his long nose in frustration. "Odd, though, for visitors to come calling so early in the morning, even before M'Seur Sicard could be expected to have his breeches on."
So far, Twigg's enthusiasm about La Malouine had seemed to be sadly misplaced. Although the ship had a larger than average crew, that would be only as expected in a country ship that had to face the danger of piracy on her lonely voyages. She was slow as Christmas, couldn't outrun a well-paddled prao, so those extra hands would be necessary to man her guns, repel boarders if necessary or deal with the natives on those mysterious islands far out in the Great South Seas where La Malouine traded for sandalwood, bird's nests, furs and shark fins. What made La Malouine at first suspicious could be explained away easily, and after a time, had been.
There were at least ninety French ships in Whampoa Reach, and all during September and October, they had speculated upon all of them. Now it was nearly mid-November, and they still had no solid leads, no standout suspect to bait.
Alan felt a twinge of sorrow for Twigg and his eternal suspicions about even the most trivial thing. But only a slight twinge of sorrow, he had to admit. So far, this adventure was a dead bust, and they knew no more today than they had the morning they'd sailed from Plymouth. Perhaps their disguised foe hadn't come to Canton at all, and was lurking somewhere far out to sea, outfitting to begin another season of piracy once the opium and silver began to flow outward from India the next summer.
Twigg and Wythy were from some shadow-world, anyway, Lewrie sighed as he watched their lanky secret agent pace deep in thought. God knows, HM Government paid the bastard to distrust everyone! Show Twigg an entry hall back home, point out the black-and-white marble tiles, and the bloody wretch'd see grey between the cracks, get out a crowbar and have 'em up to see what's underneath! And I'll bet that Ajit Roy of his tastes his food and drink first, too, Alan suspected.
"Might not have come off this Poisson D'Or at all, sir," Alan said, hiding a wry grin of almost cruel amusement at Twigg's expense. "I mean, this fog hasn't burned off or blown away. Who's to say what ship he really was from? Once near Salem Witch or Poisson D'Or, he could have doubled under their sterns and gone somewhere else. And neither Hogue nor I recognized him. Could have been anyone, sir."
"Why the covert visit at such an hour, then, sir?" Twigg said, turning to stamp back to them. "Why double under another ship's stern or bow to throw us off, as you put it, unless there was a good reason? I'd not expect even a blind man could miss our continual observations by now, Mister Lewrie. Should never have entrusted spying-out duty to you or any of the ship's people in the first place. I…"
"Sir!" Hogue intruded on the beginning of Twigg's latest tirade against amateur sleuths. "Damme if this ain't the same bugger to the letter, sir!"
"A little decorum, if you please!" Twigg snapped. "None to take notice but us. Be about your regular duties. Tom?"
Wythy went to the starboard rail with him, and they proceeded to stroll the gangway as innocent as newly risen babes. Alan went back up to the poop deck to supervise the scrubbing, jiggling and thumping the mizzen shrouds and backstays with a belaying pin to test their tension, as a ship's officer or mate would every morning.
There was a sampan coming by, and a European sailor sat almost in the bows on the squarish bow thwart, a man dressed in tan canvas trousers, faded blue shirt and dark blue sailor's jacket, with a red kerchief about his neck. His feet were bare and horny as any sailor's and he looked sublimely at ease to ride without labor for a change, leaving the poling or sculling to the Chinese at the matching stern platform. A clay pipe fumed lazily in his mouth.
Just forward of amidships, not quite under the thatch-laced "cabin" of the sampan, sat another European, though. And damned if he wasn't the same man Alan had seen scaling La Malouine's side not half an hour earlier! Closer to, when he could steal a glance at the sampan, he could espy a very slim young man, perhaps only a few years older than himself. There was that same dull red hair, pale skin and a slight, very tenuous attempt at a beard, which was the same dull ginger, a beard-lette which followed the line of the jaw very low down. Perhaps the man's essay at hiding what seemed a rather slack chin, or drawing the observer's eye upward from a prominent Adam's apple.
"Well, I'll be blowed!" Alan whispered. "They come calling?" The sampan was not exactly aimed at Telesto's main chains and boarding ladder, but she was tending slowly enough in that direction to give the impression that that was her destination. "What the Hell."
Alan strode to the rail to look down upon them directly as the sampan got within good musket shot, about 75 yards off.
Since no one else seemed ready to do their duty, or even take outward notice of the sampan as they so-studiously avoided eyeing it, someone should do the normal thing.
"Damme yer eyes, bosun!" he shouted to the quarterdeck below, then turned to face the boat and cup his hands to shout "Ahoy in the boat, there!"
"Passant!" the sailor on the bows replied with a wave of his pipe, jabbing the stem up-river in the vague direction of Jack Ass Point. "Bon matin, m'seur!"
"And a good morning to you as well, sir!" Alan waved back. "Bon matin a vous, aussi? Off to cherchez las putain in Hog Lane?"
Which raised a great Gallic shrug and laugh from the sailor.
"If you are, I hope your weddin' tackle rots off," Alan muttered, still smiling. "You poxy Frog bastard."
The sailor waved back once more, as did the other man, and then they were past amidships, on their way up-stream. But damned if they weren't swiveling slowly on their seats and eyeing Telesto devilish sharp!
I do believe they're spying on us! Alan thought. What a lot of sauce these bloody Frogs have!
Chapter 6
Choundas," Twigg told them a week later. "One Guillaume Choundas. His ship, Poisson D'Or, has been out here in the Far East for the last two years. Coincidence? I think not. That's about the time the first ships began to disappear."
"I see, sir," Captain Ayscough nodded. "Awfully young to be a ship's captain, though. What more do we know of him?"
"Come now, Captain Ayscough," Twigg sneered, "how many fond daddies get their sons made post-captain at the same age most young officers could only expect their lieutenancy! Admiral Rodney made his sixteen-year-old boy post into a fine frigate soon as he arrived in the West Indies on his last commission."
"Let me ask again, sir, what do we know of him?" Ayscough retorted with a growl. Twigg had not become any easier to swallow in the past months, and his harshness grated upon their captain most of all, forced as he was into the closest familiarity with him.
"I mean, damme, sir, what a. few Royal Navy officers do for their own don't mean this pop-in-jay benefits from someone's 'interest' in the same manner," Ayscough went on. "Who and what the hell is he?"
"He, like your officers and senior hands, Captain Ayscough, is reputed to have been an officer in the French Royal service," Twigg replied snappishly. "Well thought of at one time, I'm told by certain informants. Commanded a sloop of war, what they call a corvette."
'To be well thought of in their fleet, he'd have to be royal himself," Choate pointed out, snuggling deeper into his coat. Despite a coal-fired heater in their captain's quarters, it was a cool night, and a stiff wind on the Pearl River made it seem even chillier. "Some duke's by-blow, at best."
"Not titled," Twigg supplied. "A commoner's lad. From Brittany. Perhaps from St. Malo. I believe his father's family is in the… uhm… fishing trade."
"Wi' the profit from his voyages sae far, sir, he could buy any bluidy title he desired once he's hame," McTaggart chuckled.
Twigg glared in McTaggart's direction, shutting him up. Alan was glad he was seated on the stern transom settee, out of range of Twigg's considerable amount of bile.
"Yet he rose in the French Navy," Twigg went on.
"Only because he couldn't get into their Army, most like," Alan said in spite of himself. "Never made officer with hay still in one's ears. That takes both a title, and lashings of livres."
"Only because he couldn't get into their Army, most like," Alan said in spite of himself. "Never made officer with hay still in one's ears. That takes both a title, and lashings of livres."
"Quite right, Mister Lewrie," Twigg allowed, sounding almost pleasant for once. "So why did they not send one of their titled, and successful, frigate captains on this mission?"
"For pretty much the same reason they sent us, sir," Brainard the sailing master griped. "We're nobodies. Expendable and not much loss to the Fleet if we fail."
"Thank you, Mister Brainard. I didn't know you thought so well of us!" Ayscough laughed bitterly. "If you're correct, though, one begins to wonder in what repute you were held to be part of our band, eh?"
"Ain't we a merry crew, Alan?' Burgess marveled with a cynical shake of his head.
"Burge, there's so much brotherly love and cooperation in this cabin, I feel positively inspired!" Alan whispered back.
"Back to the subject at hand, please," Twigg ordered. "And if you two could hold down the school-boy twitterings over there? Yes, Mister Brainard, the French sent this talented young peasant to do their dirty work for them. 'Cause they can't sully their limp little hands at it, for one. For a second, they're not ruthless enough to deal with native pirates and prosper. And perhaps, because they knew if they held out enough promise of reward to this wretch Choundas, he'd leap at any opportunity for continued employment."
For a summary, it still sounded hellish like the reasons they had been called to service themselves, to Alan's lights.
"He's an aspiring brute from Brittany. Clever enough in his own fashion, I'm sure. Perhaps, like I said, a St. Malo corsair."
"So was this Sicard, sir," Percival stuck in, breaking his usual silences. "Sicard has the large crew in La Malouine; this Choundas of yours has a small crew."
"Damme, he'll fry his brains if he keeps that up," Alan muttered to Chiswick.
"Yes?" Twigg rapped out, impatient to go on, and a bit surprised to hear from Percival after all these months.
"Well, sir, seems to me Choundas has the ship made for privateering, Sicard has the perfect old tub to act as the cartel for all the loot," Percival stammered out, turning red from being on the spot, from the effort of erudition and from the possible fear he was making a total ass of himself. 'They could both act innocent… or something."
"The two of them working in collusion?" Alan blurted, unwilling to see Percival take a single trick. "Well, damme!"
"We have no proof of that, Mister Percival, though the connection is tempting," Twigg allowed. "Sicard seems honest enough, and he's never been in their Navy. Been out here for years. Dabbled at privateering in the last war against our trade, but then, what French sailor didn't, at one time or another."
"Cargoes, Zachariah," Wythy rumbled. "Where'd Sicard get his bloody odd cargo, then? Furs from Nootka Sound'd tie one ship up fer a tradin' season. Take two of 'em t'do all we suspect. Mister Percival may have a point, at that. R'member, there's no sign this Choundas put into Macao, nor traded opium fer silver with the mandarins. Come straight up-river, an' what he's landed so far's general run-o'-the-mill Indian cargo."
"What if it's this Sicard who's the leader, and Choundas and Poisson D'Or are merely his bully-bucks, sent out to enforce what he's arranged?" Choate enthused. "Look, Captain Sicard has been in the Far East and the Great South Seas for years. You said so yourself, Mister Twigg. He'd be the one most like to have contacts in past with native pirates. This Choundas is a newcomer, with a new ship. What connections could he establish with 'em on his own?"
"Gentlemen, this idle speculation…" Twigg gloomed, those lips growing hair-thin in dislike at the direction his conference was going.
"You suspected Sicard and La Malouine, for good reasons, sir, in the first place," Alan pointed out, not without more than a slight amount of glee. "Maybe Choundas is just a messenger from France, a catch-fart from their Ministry of Marine. And a bloody pirate who needs his business stopped. But not the leader-merely a henchman."
"That means we got two ships t'keep an eye on," Wythy added relentlessly. 'That's all right, long's we're anchored here in Whampoa Reach. Damme, we'll need a second ship t' follow both of 'em in the spring. If they stay that long."
"And two captains to shadow, now," Ayscough said, smiling thinly.
"Ajit-ji," Wythy instructed as they stood near a stack of cotton bales ashore in Canton. "Nandu-ji."
"Jeehan, Weeth-sahib?" they chorused.
"Piccha karna Fransisi havildar-sahibi vahahn. Ajit-ji, neela koortie, milna? Nandu, vo admi lal gooluhband, milna? Piccha karna, jeehan? Hoshiyar! Khatrah! Badmashes!"
"Aiee, jeehan Weeth-sahib. Ek dum!"*
Nandu and Ajit agreed, and walked away into the mob of sailors and traders milling about as Hog Lane got into full motion for another night.
"That takes care of the bosuns or cox'ns," Wythy sighed as the Indians put on a remarkable performance of two revelers wandering around in a daze, but following the two sailors from Poisson D'Or and La Malouine who had come ashore with Sicard and Choundas. They had come in separate sampans, but even so, their movements would be covered closely, and hopefully, surreptiously.
"We'll take Sicard," Twigg whispered, and he and Lieutenant Percival went in one direction, leaving Wythy and Lewrie to loiter by the cotton bales until Choundas dismissed his cox'n, the same sailor they'd seen giving Telesto the eye the week before in the boat with him. A handful of coins changed hands, then Choundas clapped the fellow on the shoulder and barked a short, humorous comment before the sailor departed on his own errand, or amusements.
"There he goes. Nice an' slow, now, Mister Lewrie," Wythy instructed. "No need t' trod on his heels, nor breathe down his neck. Just keep the bugger in sight. Mister Cony, is it?"
*"Follow the French mates there. Ajit, [the onej in the blue coat, see? Nandu, that man [in the] red scarf. Follow them, yes? Careful[ly]! Danger[ous]! Thieves!" "Yes, lord. At once!"
"Aye, sir, that's me name, sir," Cony whispered, a trifle nervous.
"Ye know what's wanted?" Wythy inquired. "You go on ahead of him, stroll along at a fair clip like ye know where ye're goin', an' if this Choundas bugger veers off from behind o' ye, don't worry 'bout it, 'cause we're still followin' him. If he gets outa sight, try an' spot where he went t' ground, an' come back t' join us. Right?"
"Right, sir," Cony said with a deep sigh of commitment.
"Achcha, Cony-sahib!" Wythy praised. "Chabuk sawi! Ijazaht hai! Daw mut!"*
*"Good, Cony-lord! Clever fellow! You may go now! Don't fear!"
"Jeehan, Mister Wythy, sir." Cony essayed a brief grin before he took off on his dangerous chore.
"He'll be safe enough, should he not, Mister Wythy?" Lewrie asked.
"Aye, he's a clever'un. Picks things up quick as a wink, like he's learned more Hindee'n most Englishmen out here ten years. It's us that's in more danger. Those Frogs know we're officers off the ship that's been payin' close attention to their doin's. And ye'll mind how they've been givin' us the eagle-eye the last few days."
"Aye, sir," Alan replied, feeling absolutely naked among the throngs of drunken, reeling sailors in Hog Lane. "God, I'd give my soul right now for the feel of a little rigging knife, though!"
"And it's be yer soul, if the mandarins' soldiers caught ye armed," Wythy warned. "One of their eight bloody rules ye never violate, not if ye know what's good fer ye. Applies t' the Frogs same's us, thank the good Lord."
Choundas wandered Hog Lane for a while, strolling into Thirteen Factory Street at last, and wandering right past the factories to the bank of the foetid creek, and across the plank bridge to the front of the King Qua Hong. He looked to be in no hurry to get where he was going, but there wasn't much down that way: Mou Qua's Hong, a wide lane that did little business that late in the evening, and then one of the large customs houses, which would be shut.
"Clever bugger. Clever as paint," Wythy commented, taking Lewrie by the arm and steering him back the other way. "He'll turn about and come right down our throats, t' see if anyone's tailin' him. Not the skills ye expect t' see in a French naval officer, damme'f they ain't!"
Choundas did reverse his course and struck out west once more, making a beeline for the bridge. Cony had already crossed over, and was across the street from him. There was nothing for it but for him to turn into Carpenter's Square, and try to look as innocent as he could. Wythy and Alan turned their backs on him and suddenly got interested in an open-air grog shop that spilled out into Hog Lane, with all evidence of nothing more important in their lives than a mug of rum and hot water.
"Sorry, Mister Wythy, sir," Cony apologized, once he had rejoined them. Alan offered him the rest of his grog. It was far below the standards of Navy Issue from the Victualling Board-the rawest stuff he'd tasted since leaving the West Indies. "God, that's awful, sir!"
"You stay here, Cony. We'll follow him now."
"Headed for the French factory, Cony?" Alan asked.
"Nossir, 'e's on t'other side o' the street. Just goin' into Old Clothes Street now, sir," Cony related.
"Dead end, else he'd get into the city proper, an' I doubt he's got that much clout with the mandarins." Wythy grinned. "No, our lad's off t' put the leg over some Chinee lass. Better cut o' bagnios lays in that direction. 'Bout a dozen of 'em. Co Hong quality stuff."
"Aha," Alan commented. Wythy had at last informed him where he could get some quim.
"He'll be in there 'bout an hour'r so," Wythy said, pulling out his pocket watch. "If the brute has any taste, that is. If he's the peasant Zachariah thinks him, I'd make it a quarter o' that. Let's be meanderin' so we may keep a sharp eye peeled for when he comes out. Cony, ye want the rest o' my rum, as well?"
"Well, h'it ain't so bad, once ya gets some down, sir, thankee right kindly," Cony agreed.
They strolled west, past the Chow Chow Hong, the East India Company Factory, the Swedish, to take guard across the street from the entrance to Old Clothes Street.
"Well, damme," Percival said as he and Twigg heaved into sight.
"Sicard?" Wythy asked.
"In there," Twigg whispered, pointing with his chin.
"Same fer Choundas," Wythy snarled. "Now what's so allfired secret they gotta do their talkin' in a brothel? Ain't their ships good 'nough?"
"This may be some theatric, to keep us off-balance," Twigg sighed with the exasperation of a longtime expert at the art of tailing a man. "Unless there's someone they're meeting in there, someone they wouldn't want even the Chinese, or the Co Hong, to know about."
"A Chinese pirate, maybe, sir?" Percival asked. "Or do these Malay or Mindanao raiders ever come up the Pearl to trade in Canton like anyone else?"
"How many brothels in there, Tom?" Twigg asked.
"Only four I know of that cater t' Western custom. Rest is fer the Co Hong, 'r the Chinee exclusively. There's touts enough in the street if ye wish t' ask about. If they went t' one of the best ones, ye can wager the pimps'r still pickin' their chins up off the street at the novelty of it," Wythy imparted with a soft laugh.
"Well, I need some volunteers, then," Twigg demanded. "To enter those brothels that accept Europeans."
"I'll go, sir," Alan piped up. It had been a long time since Calcutta-and Padmini, Draupadi and Apsara!
"Speak fluent French, Mister Lewrie?" Twigg simpered. "Speak Chinese, come to think on it? Would you know what to look for?"
"Would you, sir?" Alan shot back without a pause.
"Most probably I would not, sir," Twigg smiled. "But I would know most of the French Compagnie des Indies officials by sight, and more than a few of the notorious Chinese coastal pirates as well. Tom, we're in your hands now."
"Aye, Zachariah. Look, you an' Percival try the last two on the left. Lewrie an' I'll look into the others. Hope the pimps speak pidgin at the best."
The pimps did, though it didn't do much good. Old Clothes Street was full of European barbarian foreign-devils that night, and to the Chinese, they all pretty much looked alike, so even the offer of some cash didn't get them any useful information.
"Ever'body got a condom?" Wythy asked. "Just in case."
Percival didn't. He was relegated to street lookout on the other side of Thirteen Factory Street. Percival was very put-out.
"We can use yer services again, Cony," Wythy said.
"Aye, sir, though… uhm… I h'ain't got much money, sir."
"I didn't come prepared for sport, either, sir," Alan said, "Not in the financial sense, anyway. Do you think the tariff would be dear?" he asked with an innocent expression.
"Well, damme!" Twigg griped, but dug out his purse and handed over enough golden guineas to pay for their socket-fees, an act which half killed his soul, and made Alan delight in the prospect of getting the leg over at Twigg's expense.
They saw Cony into one of the brothels, assuring the warder at the door that Cony was a minor tai pan, no matter that he was dressed as a sailor.
"Ye want this'un, then?" Wythy asked. "An' I'll take the last but one on the right. Meet us at the Chun Qua Factory whether ye learn anythin' or no. Don't dawdle, Mister Lewrie. Half an hour, shall we say?" Wythy grinned.
"The things I do for King and Country, sir," Alan smiled back.
"An' not a jot on what I've done in the King's name, boy."
"Aye, sir."
The expedition took a lot longer than Wythy's stricture of half an hour. And, Lewrie suspected, if his own experience was anything to go by, none of the others would be getting back to the Chun Qua Factory before he did-might not even get back before dawn!
First, he had to pay the warder to get into the bloody place. It was nice to learn that the bobbing little weasel could speak pidgin, no matter what the mandarins' laws had to say about limiting the number of Chinese exposed to foreign-devil barbarians, their languages and alien ideas. It did, however, cost him six pence, which was not so nice.
He was lit into a small alcove through a semi-circular archway by a giggling little maid-servant. There were several of the alcoves along the main hall, screened off by folding rice-paper screens painted with some truly awe-inspiring Oriental pornography. Try as he would, he could not overhear any French being spoken, nor did he see either Sicard or Choundas in any of the alcoves.
"Wythy must be right," he muttered to himself. "The man's not here, or he's a damn quick worker. On, off and 'Where's my shoes.' "
The maid-servant seated him on pillows before a very low black-lacquered table, and began lighting lamps. Another maid came trotting in with a serving tray, offering steaming-hot towels, steaming-hot tea (an excellent early-spring picking Yu Tsien, he noted) and plates of tiny dumplings called dim sum for an appetizer. The first little maid returned with a straw-wrapped bottle of mao tai brandy and delicate little paper-thin drinking cups.