02 Shanghai Dreams (The Earl’s Other Son #2) Read online

  The Earl’s Other Son Series

  BOOK TWO

  Shanghai Dreams

  ANDREW WAREHAM

  Digital edition published in 2018 by

  The Electronic Book Company

  A New York Times Best-seller

  Listed Publisher

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  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This ebook contains detailed research material, combined with the author's own subjective opinions, which are open to debate. Any offence caused to persons either living or dead is purely unintentional. Factual references may include or present the author's own interpretation, based on research and study.

  Shanghai Dreams

  Copyright © 2018 by Andrew Wareham

  All Rights Reserved

  Contents:

  Introduction

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  By the Same Author

  Introduction

  Shanghai Dreams: Magnus is stationed at Shanghai where news reaches him of his brother’s involvement in a serious sex scandal which threatens to derail Magnus’ naval career and his future relationship with the beautiful Miss Blantyre. He is sent on a daring mission upriver to stop the nefarious activities of German spymaster, Baron Hildesheim. Later, a Russian squadron arrives in Shanghai with a mutinous crew bringing the prospect of more chaos on the Chinese coast.

  Best read in series order

  Chapter One

  Editor’s Note: Shanghai Dreams was written, produced and edited in the UK where some of the spellings, punctuation and word usage vary slightly from U.S. English.

  The Earl’s Other Son Series

  Shanghai Dreams

  Broad, dirty, fast-flowing, more like a wide tidal inlet than a river.

  The Yangtse-Kiang reminded Magnus of Spithead under a strong westerly blowing against the tide – choppy and confused. It was not unlike the Thames as well – full of mud and less identifiable debris and showing solid evidence that millions of human beings lived on its banks.

  “Fall into this and one might hope to drown, Mr Mason. I would hate to experience the diseases that must follow on a rescue from this water.”

  The First Lieutenant hastened to agree – the great river was no place for Englishmen to swim.

  “What is the current, typically, Mr Mason?”

  “Rarely less than three knots, sir, and commonly closer to five. In times of flood it can reach eight for a week at a time.”

  Six hundred miles from Shanghai to Hankow, almost tripled in terms of coal consumption by the current when the river was in spate.

  “Gannet, Shearwater and Mutine might find themselves unable to make headway against the flood… It might be that only Racoon and the destroyer Mountjoy could respond to a call for aid from Hankow, and the two requiring as much as five days to complete the voyage. The river needs powerful but small gunboats, Mr Mason, designed for the task – old sloops and cruisers are not what is required.”

  “No, sir.”

  “It is, however, what we have got, so we must put up with it and do all we can. The Navy is not to be defeated by some Chinese river, I believe.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good. Crew to harbour stations. Make ready to cast off. Signal the flotilla to follow father.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  The order had been given well in advance and the flotilla knew they were to cast off from the pontoons along the Bund at ten o’clock precisely, shore time. The news had spread in the European community and a little crowd of idlers had gathered to watch the ships. In part it was through patriotism, to cheer the flag; to an extent because any event made a break in the daily round for the women and children of the isolated Concession, walled in by a great mass of unknown and therefore probably hostile Chinese, confined to the few blocks of their own foreign enclave.

  “Young lady waving at the ship, sir.”

  There were fifty at least of young females waving and pointing, Magnus thought. He followed Mason’s pointing arm and saw Miss Blantyre, wondered just how much was known to the ship of his interest there. He raised his cap and gravely waved back, half of the female eyes watching his action and observing who it was directed at. An instant wave of rumour and speculation spread through the little crowd; he had provided the gossips with food for a month.

  Mason left the bridge for the forecastle, his place at harbour stations. Lieutenant, Harborough, the second lieutenant, stepped forward to the con. Magnus ordered him to carry on and ostentatiously stood to the side, observing.

  Harborough was a pink, bland, forgettable fellow, utterly undistinguished in appearance and conversation. Magnus had formed no opinion of him, neither liked nor disliked the young gentleman, suspected that if he met him ashore in civilian clothing he would fail to recognise him. He assumed that he must be competent in his duties; he was a seaman officer without a specialisation and so must be a more than competent ship-handler. There was only one way to find out what, if anything, the lieutenant could do.

  Harborough sent a midshipman to the stern to shout confirmation that none of the mooring wires or cables were fouling the screws. He took the ship through the process of singling-up, reducing her to just the one wire holding her to the pontoon.

  The ship’s postman jumped aboard, last man to board so as to bring any final messages or orders from the Senior Naval Officer, as well as actual mail from the post office.

  Harborough showed simple competence in casting off, ensuring that the screws were turning and the ship was under command at all times. It was not unknown for less skilful officers to lose control and allow the current to sweep the ship backwards into mid-channel. Every knowledgeable eye in the crowd, and telescopes from the Senior Naval Officer’s people, was watching hopefully for a cause of mockery. They were disappointed on this occasion, turned their hopeful attention to Gannet, Shearwater, Mutine and then Mountjoy as they followed in line.

  “Very good, Mr Harborough. Revolutions to make good five knots, if you please.”

  Harborough had to allow for the speed of the current, not easily determined, and then estimate Racoon’s speed against a fixed point on the river bank to ensure that she was making good her ten thousand yards an hour. It was not a simple task and he spent the better part of twenty minutes calling corrections of a few turns up or down before he was satisfied.

  “I saw that you chose to give a midshipman responsibility when we cast off, Mr Harborough.”

  “Yes, sir. Grant-Hartley, sir, who has his certificate as a watch-keeper and is in line to become a sub-lieutenant fairly soon, sir. He is capable of doing that sort of job and will benefit from it. He will be a navigation specialist, I believe, sir.”

  “Good. I will bear him in mind. Have we any gunnery specialists, do you know?”

  “No, sir. Not really to be encouraged on Racoon, sir. Not our sort of thing.”

  It was a commonplace attitude in the Navy – guns were for the tradesmen, f
or those lesser mortals who were not really sea-officers.

  “What is that off the port bow, Mr Harborough?”

  Harborough glanced casually across, shrugged almost pityingly.

  “An infant, sir. A girl baby, new born and thrown into the river, a burden on a poor family. Not that rare a sight, sir. Distressing, I will admit. A boy will grow up to till the rice field and support his parents in their old age; a girl will need a bride price, can never be other than a cost to the family.”

  Harborough suddenly jumped to the speaking tube to the wheelhouse, shouting urgently.

  “Ten of port wheel.”

  “Ten of port wheel on, sir.”

  Racoon turned to the starboard. Harborough waited a few seconds.

  “Midships.”

  Racoon steadied on her course for half a minute and then Harborough called for ten of starboard wheel and brought her back to her original position in midstream.

  “Tree trunk, sir.”

  “Yes, I saw it, Mr Harborough. Big enough to damage our bows or possibly knock off a blade of a propeller. Is that a common hazard on the river?”

  “Very much so, sir. The river is so long, sir, the better part of seventeen hundred miles, they say, though we cannot get past the rapids in Racoon, so would not go much past Hankow – where was I? Oh, yes, there will be flooding somewhere along her course, sir, most months, and that will lead to landslides and trees thrown into the waterway. Some of them are very big. The real problem comes when they get waterlogged, sir, and sink almost below the surface but still high enough to hit a hull. Difficult to see, sir. Often better to tie up at night as a result, sir.”

  “Better we should use a searchlight, I think. I don’t like the prospect of spending eight or ten hours of the twenty-four motionless. Take a week to reach Hankow at that rate.”

  They heard shouting behind them.

  “Gannet, sir. Fouled the log. Poor, sir, should have seen us manoeuvre.”

  Magnus stared at the scene immediately behind them, saw that Gannet was in some difficulty, was signalling.

  “Gannet, sir, ‘am holed to bows. Making water. Pump coping.’”

  “Gannet return Shanghai, repair there if possible. If necessary, under tow to Hong Kong. Report SNO Shanghai for survey.”

  Captain Erskine would love that opportunity to sneer and patronise him.

  Lieutenant Harborough shook his head, deprecating the poor seamanship which had led to the collision.

  “Court of Enquiry there, sir?”

  “Possibly. I shall have the captain’s guts for garters. Inexcusable negligence!”

  Harborough agreed, wondering if he might be promoted if the man aboard Gannet was dismissed his ship. He turned his mind to their own progress.

  “Will we be under sail at all, sir?”

  “No. Never. A ridiculous concept on the river, and fairly much pointless at sea. We shall steam at all times. We have coal for seven thousand miles at ordinary cruising speed – halve that on the river, it would seem, but still thoroughly adequate.”

  Lieutenant Harborough did not approve – he believed firmly in the sailing navy. He had been told many a time that the true seaman used sail – Nelson would never have steamed, that he was certain of.

  “Difficult to train up the midshipmen if we do not sail, sir.”

  “On the contrary, Harborough, we can spend time teaching valuable skills to the mids. Gunnery, for example. The teaching of sailing skills is a futile exercise, for no ship of the future will have masts. It is doubtful if we will even have coal-burners in the Navy of tomorrow. Oil and big guns, backed up by torpedoes, that will be the thing! On that topic, I must take care to arrange days out at sea so that the guns may be fired live. The crew is rather thin for our armament, I believe, but we shall do what we can.”

  “One hundred and seventy-six men, sir. Sufficient to fire a broadside, in the traditional fashion. Three six inch QF and four three-pound Hotchkiss guns and one of the Maxims. We have a sufficiency of men to act as ammunition passers for such an exercise, sir.”

  “Unsatisfactory if we ever have to fight both sides, Harborough. Not impossible if we have to enter one of the smaller rivers that we might be engaged on both banks.”

  “Unlikely, sir. The Chinks will cut and run at the first shot, you know – no bottom, sir, these foreigners. Yellow in the skin, and in the spirit, sir. I do not think we need fear them.”

  “That is not my experience of the Chinese, Mr Harborough. In any case, we might well have to fight a Chinese army officered by Germans, or possibly French. Mercenaries, so-called, but actually carrying out their country’s policies, and possibly very well armed. We know there are Krupp guns floating about in China, and it is not impossible there are French weapons as well. Less need to worry about the Russians, I suppose, but they are present as we know. Then, of course, there are the Japanese. I think we may ignore the Italians, Belgians and Austrians, and we are less likely to go to war with the Americans.”

  Harborough pointed out that they were, when all was said and done, no more than foreigners, all of them, and consequently not to be feared.

  “The Navy will take them all on, sir. We need have no doubt of that.”

  “We may well have to, Mr Harborough. It is fortunate, perhaps, that there can be little fear of France and Germany going into alliance. Together they could provide some difficulty.”

  “We have the guns to deal with them, sir. Even, sir, as you say, at a last resort we have the jolly old torpedoes, you know – the ’mouldies’, as the men call them.”

  “Ah, yes. One fixed tube and four carriages, I remember. Who is our Torpedo Officer? I cannot recall being introduced to the gentleman when I met the wardroom.”

  Lieutenant Harborough was shocked – it was hardly a task for an officer, to bother himself with torpedoes, of all things.

  “The Chief Electrical Artificer, sir, has responsibility for the damned things.”

  Magnus showed polite interest, retired to his cabin. Ten minutes later, when he had started to work his way through the records of torpedo firing, he was called to the conning tower.

  A glance over the port bow showed him the problem.

  “What’s that damned steamer doing, Mr Harborough?”

  “Chinese, sir. Eight hundred tonner, deep laden – well below the marks, sir. Steering badly in the current.”

  The steamer was making towards Shanghai, seemed hardly under control and was wandering almost at random from side to side.

  “What’s her speed?”

  “Varying, sir. Little more than two knots, sir, insufficient to give her steerage way in this current. Saving coal, sir by just barely maintaining a head of steam.”

  “Warn her. Three blasts of the steam siren.”

  At sea the warning would have been recognised and acted on, but she was probably in the hands of a river pilot, would pick up her deep-sea crew in Shanghai. Quite possibly the signal was meaningless to them, or perhaps the officer of the watch was drunk, or asleep.

  The steamer veered again, coming onto a collision course with Racoon.

  Magnus bent to the voice pipe.

  “Engine room, make ready for sudden manoeuvring.”

  A few more seconds and the steamer’s head began to waver away from the direct line.

  “Mr Harborough, fire a blank from the port bow six inch. Call all hands to their stations.”

  It seemed an opportunity to observe the men’s reaction to an emergency.

  A minute and the ready reports were pouring into the conning tower, but there had been no warning shot from the six incher.

  As Magnus watched a hand ran up from below, cradling a round against his chest. The gun crew was closed up and waiting, breech open. The loader grabbed the brass shell and threw it into the breech and the layer closed and called ready and fired the piece. A loud explosion and the barrel recoiled and the breech flew open and the brass case was flung out, ready for the next round.

  “Is
Mr Plumb not on the deck in action, Mr Harborough?”

  “Normally here, sir, in the conning tower. We have no separate Gunnery Control position in this ship, sir. Possibly he found it necessary to gee them up in the six inch magazine, sir.”

  Magnus nodded and watched the antics aboard the Chinese steamer; it seemed likely that the watchkeeper had been asleep or was drunk – another officer had appeared and seemed to be kicking the sole occupant of the wheelhouse. There was a sudden eruption of black smoke from her funnel, as if there had been an abrupt call for more power, and the ship came onto a controlled course.

  “Mr Plumb to the conning tower, if you please.”

  Plumb appeared, red faced and angry.

  “I told that damned fool of a PO in the magazine to have a blank available in the ready use locker at both forward guns, sir. He says he was too busy to get round to it. First Lieutenant’s report, sir, charged with neglect of his duty. I shall have his rating, sir. I have a reliable man can step up, sir.”

  “See to it, Mr Plumb. Remand him from First Lieutenant to the Captain’s table and I shall invite him to find an excuse – as is only just – and then I shall break him down to ordinary seaman for jeopardising the ship. I will not have it, Mr Plumb!”

  “Torpedoes, Mr Mason. A report, if you please.”

  “Certainly, sir. Racoon was originally designated a ‘torpedo cruiser’, as you will be aware. The intention was that she and others of her class would accompany the fleet and make torpedo attacks as and where possible, acting as a flotilla, perhaps at night but most likely leading the fleet into action in daytime. Unfortunately, Racoon and the whole class proved too slow even to keep up with a fleet when manoeuvring into battle. The torpedoes, therefore, are no longer to be regarded as the ship’s main armament. It is accepted that we would use guns only in any action, sir. On the river, of course, it would hardly be possible to launch a torpedo, and one can hardly conceive of a target for the infernal machine, sir.”