A Most Immoral Woman (15 page)

Morrison squinted. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘That one easier.’ Kuan indicated another. ‘Shoulder-pole Island.’

Morrison smiled. ‘Yes, that’s clear enough.’ Something occurred to him. ‘Say, Kuan, what do you think of Ho and his companions?’ The men, who were travelling on to Shanghai, had bid them a warm farewell the night before and were still resting in their cabins.

‘They are good men,’ Kuan replied enthusiastically. ‘They love their country.’ A look of caution flickered across his face. He turned back to the view. ‘Firewood Island. See?’

Morrison didn’t, nor did he exert himself trying. He studied his Boy. ‘Is there something about the men I might be interested in knowing, Kuan?’

‘My master is very smart,’ Kuan said carefully. ‘I think maybe they are—how you say?—sympathetic to the reform movement.’

‘Interesting,’ Morrison replied. ‘Would they be active, in your opinion?’

‘How can I know? I am only a servant. Why would they tell me?’

Chefoo’s golden pebbly beaches, crumbling stone forts and smart rows of two-storey brick godowns hove into view. Overlooking the port was Beacon Hill with its Ming Dynasty signal tower, nearly three centuries old, the cliff-edge Temple of the Dragon King and the grandest of the homes, offices and consulates of Chefoo’s foreign community. Further inland stood the old walled city. Behind sprawled the undulating hills, mountains and farmland of Shantung. A province larger by seven thousand square miles than England and Wales put together, it had been the home of Confucius. With the exception of modest Chefoo and tiny Wei Hai Wei, it was also almost entirely, and to Morrison’s mind infuriatingly, within the German sphere of influence.

In Chefoo’s harbour, wooden-hulled junks with patched concertinaed sails and gaily painted high sterns wove in and out between British and Japanese warships and passenger steamers. Skiffs swarmed around the junks like pilot fish, the boatmen loading cargoes of vermicelli, beancake, peanuts, fruit, silk, hairnets and lace bound for Shanghai.

As they cast anchor, Morrison’s eye was caught by the outlandish sight of a Chinese fishing junk crowded with Europeans. The passengers sat slump-shouldered on the deck as though weighted with sadness, hunched over suitcases and bedrolls. Morrison had heard that with land battles looming and the siege dragging on, European, Russian, Chinese and Japanese residents of Port Arthur alike were giving up their jewels and cash to the captains of junks willing to run the Japanese naval blockade. Chefoo, being a mere eighty-nine nautical miles south of Port
Arthur, was, along with Wei Hai Wei, a first port of call. He would try to speak with the refugees before going on to Wei Hai Wei and his appointment with Lionel James. But he wouldn’t do so straight away. Seated on the customs launch headed for the steamer and waving his hat was Morrison’s dear friend J.L. Molyneux, the customs service’s resident surgeon. Molyneaux’s mischievous wit and knowledge of the indiscretions, follies and infelicities of the foreign community were second to none.
Now this is a balm!

‘Ernest! Good to see you, man!’ the irrepressible Molyneux called out. ‘There is much gossip here for you. Scuttlebutt from all corners of the Empire: Tientsin, Shanghai, Chefoo, Wei Hai Wei, Port Arthur and Japan. I was only afraid it was going to go to waste. It’s been lying about in great piles awaiting collection.’

‘Oh, that is good news,’ Morrison replied, clambering down the boarding ladder and into the launch, followed by Kuan with the luggage. ‘What’s on the menu?’

‘The usual: journalistic slapstick, diplomatic indiscretion, sexual peccadilloes.’

‘Let me see. I’ll start with the first. Journalistic slapstick.’

‘I thought you might.’

There was nothing better calculated to cheer up a frustrated journalist than news of the imbroglios of his peers. Morrison only hoped that his beloved’s beloved Martin Egan would be amongst those whom his friend was about to lampoon.

‘With breakfast?’ Molyneux offered. ‘There’s still plenty of time before the mail packet departs for Wei Hai Wei.’

‘Even better.’ The customs launch reached the docks. Morrison instructed Kuan to arrange passage for them both on the mail boat. Leaving his Boy with the luggage, he and Molyneux turned their footsteps towards Beacon Hill.

Molyneux began. ‘So, McCullagh of the
New York Herald
recently got into such a funk trying to compose his telegram that, in order to hold the wires whilst he pushed it out, he telegraphed home two whole pages of a novel—at fourteen shillings a word. He blew his editor’s budget and nearly got the sack.’

Morrison chortled. ‘I should think so.’

‘Meanwhile, Norris-Newman of the
Daily Mail
did so poorly, despite managing to pass himself off to the Japanese as a British Lieutenant-Colonel, that he actually did get the sack. And Ernest Brindle sank certain Japanese warships that to all other observations were afloat and in action, whilst evacuating Port Arthur all on his own.’

‘My colleague Granger did the same for Newchang the other day.’ By the time the men reached the colonnaded officers’ mess, Morrison was much revived.

‘Oh, and Paul Bowles has demanded his employers at the Associated Press produce the sum of eighty thousand dollars for a yacht to give him steady access to Chefoo. He says this is the only place where he can send off telegrams uncensored by the Japanese.’

‘Audacious. And I suppose he told them no steamers were arriving in port, either. I suppose if Lionel James has got himself a boat, the others don’t see why they shouldn’t have one as well.’

‘Your James has caused no end of excitement. Dispatching poor David Fraser, whom I fear will ever be known as “the valet”, to set up the wireless land station for the
Haimun
at Wei Hai Wei, he ordered him to raise a one-hundred-and-eighty-foot mast. It needed to be that tall to receive signals from the boat if it got as far as Port Arthur. James didn’t realise that the peasants had already chopped down every tree on every hill for miles around
Wei Hai Wei for fuel. Fraser had to cobble together something out of the half-rotting masts of abandoned junks. When he set about raising it, it broke in two and nearly dragged half a regiment of bluejackets with it into the sea.’

‘Half a regiment?’ Morrison sounded dubious.

‘I exaggerate.’ Molyneux shrugged. ‘As one normally does in pursuit of a good story.’ He prodded his friend.

‘I never!’ Morrison pulled away from the offending finger. ‘All my mistakes, and I admit they’re manifold, are honest ones.’

‘Anyway, whilst all this is unfolding, the indefatigable James is sending one telegram after the other to Fraser—“Expedite Forestry”, “Expedite Forestry”.

‘Ah. The De Forest wireless system. Forestry. Of course.’

‘After the same message arrived day after day after day, several times a day, the pun ceased to amuse them.’

‘I can imagine. James summoned me to Wei Hai Wei with a similarly persistent, if pun-less, deluge.’

‘On a more serious note,’ Molyneux said, ‘you should probably know that he has put some rather prominent noses out of joint.’

‘That’s quite an image,’ Morrison replied. ‘How big are these noses, exactly?’

‘Big. You see, strictly speaking, only the government, the British administration of Wei Hai Wei, may sanction the building of a new wireless station. He failed to square with the commissioner first.’

‘Lockhart?’ Morrison knew the commissioner well. ‘Maybe I can have a word.’

‘That would be useful. But I’m not sure what you can do about the Admiralty. Fraser talked Colonel Bruce into volunteering the
help of the Royal Engineers, entangling the military in
The Times’s
project as well. Hence the involvement of bluejackets. Wholly illegal, as you might imagine. All things considered, it’s a miracle that he managed to get the mast up and working at all, and without anyone getting arrested or court-martialled, at that.’

‘It appears that I’ll have my work cut out simply trying to keep people from trying to sink the
Haimun
with James on board—and I mean those ostensibly on our side. It must be said that, just over a week ago in the midst of all this ballyhoo, James did manage to send his first wireless news message from the
Haimun
, the first ever transmitted from a war zone.’

Molyneux opened his mouth and shut it again. His lips twitched.

Morrison fixed his friend with a wry look. ‘I know what you want to say: the only fact James reported in said dispatch was that he was at sea aboard the
Haimun
en route to Korea. Oh, and that the “military developments” that he had previously foreshadowed ought to be taking place “very soon”.’ After that night at the Tientsin Club, when Morrison had been surprised by the news of James’s breakthrough, he’d found and read the dispatch in question. ‘The second telegram, which he sent the day after, was more satisfying.’

‘About the landing of Japan’s main expeditionary force on the Korean coast.’

‘Yes, with good detail. The building of pontoon jetties and so on. He was properly discreet, too, declining to give numbers or designations of the troops, saying it would be “unfair” to the Japanese to do so.’

‘I understand there’s been a third telegram. It was sent two days ago. He provides much information on Admiral Kamimura’s
bombardment of Vladivostok earlier this month. He does seem to have won the trust of his Japanese sources.’

‘Yes. Even if the Japanese navy is still prevaricating about how close they will let him get to any real action. I look forward to hearing more when I join him in Wei Hai Wei. Speaking of which, I spotted a junk carrying European refugees earlier. I’d like to speak with them before leaving Chefoo.’

‘Let’s go then,’ answered Molyneux. ‘When you’re done, I shall have the customs launch deliver you to the steamer.’

The men set off. An hour or so later they boarded the customs launch at the jetty.

‘So,’ Molyneux said, ‘I believe that you are keeping the best story of all to yourself

‘What do you mean?’

‘One hears that you’re seeing the famous Miss Perkins.’

‘Famous?’

‘Most certainly. She is widely discussed. The wife of a customs official—no, don’t worry, not
that
one—arrived back from Tientsin a week or so ago full of information, though I admit it was so excessively sartorial in nature that I ceased to pay attention at the third mention of taffeta. My Boy told me about her in more interesting detail. His cousin Ah Long works for the Ragsdales. That’s how I learned you knew the lass.’

‘How small China is. Nearly four hundred million people and every single one of them knows my business.’

‘And, to be fair, you know theirs.’

‘It’s my job. But touché. So, what exactly have you heard?’

‘She seems to have charmed everyone except the missionaries, whose disapproval commends her more highly to everyone else. Even the women appear to be entranced, with the exception of
those whose husbands have embraced the cult of Miss Perkins too heartily.’

Morrison affected insouciance. ‘In which case they may be embracing more than the cult, one would think.’

‘Indeed. She is quite the courtesan, from all reports.’

‘Quite,’ Morrison replied, as tightly wound as his watch.

‘Do I detect a note of sourness?’

‘Not at all. I’m enjoying myself and haven’t felt so young or vigorous in a long while. She does me good, even when she does me bad.’

Molyneux grinned. ‘That’s apparent. You’re looking in ruddy good health.’

‘On the other hand, one does struggle. Like most explorers, I have an instinctive dislike of the beaten track.’

‘And her track is well beaten.’

Morrison shot Molyneux a malefic look.

‘That was crude, I admit. But I am curious, G.E. Is it possible to make an honest woman of her?’

Morrison was about to answer with a wisecrack when a realisation struck him. ‘That’s the thing about her and why separation from her causes me to feel downspirited. She is the most honest woman I have ever met. She has no pretence, no hypocrisy. And that is rare and lovable in a woman.’

‘It is rare and lovable in a man as well,’ Molyneux noted.

Morrison paused. ‘I feel that if I can only hold on to that appreciation, I might find happiness with her. But I confess it is damned hard at times.’

‘What does she want from you? Did she say?’

‘For me not to go with any fast women whilst we’re apart.’

Molyneux guffawed.

‘I’m serious.’

Molyneux wagged his finger at Morrison. ‘There is only one way to deal with a woman like that, G.E.’

‘And that is?’

‘You must marry her. Whoa!’ The wake from a passing warship caused the launch to roll. Molyneux caught Morrison before he tumbled straight over the gunwales.

Marry her
?

The packet made the coastal run in good time and it wasn’t long before Wei Hai Wei, much smaller than Chefoo, slid into view. Morrison looked towards the low brown denuded hills with their sparse covering of scrub oak and rough grass, imagining Fraser’s dismay at being ordered to erect a sturdy mast. Without the right raw materials, any enterprise descended into folly.

The man has a sense of humour
.

The boat juddered to anchor at Port Edward, the compact settlement that was home to Wei Hai Wei’s small European community. Atop a flagpole, one of the British Empire’s more eccentric flags snapped in the breeze. A Union Jack in the upper left corner. Centre right a circular badge with a delicate Chinese watercolour of Mandarin ducks, the classic symbol of love and fidelity. They represented the marriage of sound colonial administration and local custom, which was intended to transform the sleepy fishing village into a veritable Hong Kong of northern China. It would be more than just a British naval base and rest
station: it would be a model of colonial administration. And so the British established school and clinics. They planted trees. They vaccinated children against bubonic plague and puerperal fever, mandated the covering of night-soil buckets and organised villagers into rat-catching associations. Yet for all the energy of the administration and hopefulness of the symbolism, Morrison knew neither the British nor the Chinese expected the union to last. The 1898 convention under which the Ch’ing Court leased Wei Hai Wei to Britain granted the tiny territory to the British only for so long as the Russians held Port Arthur. Thus both sides viewed the arrangement as a makeweight by which a more stable balance of imperialist powers might be achieved. If Japan won this war, the union would dissolve. It was hard to put much stock in love and fidelity when the groom knew the bride was liable to wander off with someone else at any moment.

Morrison told himself to stop reading meaning into every deuced thing.

He and Kuan caught the first launch for hilly Liu Kung Island, the natural breakwater at the mouth of Wei Hai Wei’s harbour, which the British navy had made its base and recreational ground. It was not a big place, only two miles long and one and a quarter square miles in area. The north of the island rose steeply from the sea in forbidding cliffs. Chinese fishermen lived on the island’s pointy east and blunter west ends in stone houses thatched with seagrass; the British erected their barracks, churches and public buildings in the sheltered south and centre. Kuan pointed out a Japanese man o’ war steaming past, en route to Port Arthur.

They disembarked at the crowded quay on the island’s south side. Directly across the way was a grand old building that had formerly housed a Chinese temple. At the top of a low flight of
stone steps stood massive vermilion doors. Painted with the fierce figure of the Chinese God of War, they had been swung open in welcome. A sign at the side of the door announced the premises as ‘Queen’s House’; it served as the Royal Naval Canteen. Making plans to meet Kuan later, Morrison strode up the stone steps, stepped smartly over the wooden threshold and looked around. In a courtyard where Buddhist idols once ‘ate joss’ and spirit food offered up by worshippers, British officers and civilians consumed light meals and ‘temperance drinks’ such as beer served up by the management. Seated at a table on which the latest edition of the daily
Wei Hai Wei Lyre
lay open and unread, Lionel James puffed furiously on his pipe, looking no less red-faced or wild-eyed than the God of War himself.

Morrison had barely sat down when James let loose a barrage: ‘the hide of…’, ‘gross insult…’, ‘outrage…’, ‘provocation…’ Morrison had to wind him back like a clock.

Admiral Alexieff, the Tsar’s viceroy for the Far East, James said, had decreed that should the Russian navy discover that any correspondents travelling on neutral vessels were utilising wireless technology to communicate war news to the Japanese, the Russians would arrest them as spies and seize their vessels and equipment. ‘I am, of course, the only correspondent who fits the description!’ James fumed. ‘And all this just as I’ve finally begun to make a mark with my telegrams. The
New York Times
is now publishing them after
The Times
. Somebody has to stare down Alexieff!’

‘Agreed,’ Morrison said. ‘But if you are not actually communicating war news to the Japanese, the Russians would have no grounds to complain. I say write a telegram for
The Times
in which you make clear that you use a cipher that neither Japanese nor Russian instruments are capable of recording. Put it
on the record. You are doing nothing that compromises the neutrality of your position or the ship’s. If the Russians dare to act then, it will be seen as a hostile act.’

James grunted assent. His brow remained furrowed under his slouch cap. He relit his pipe and drew on it for a while in silence, his features growing hazy behind the cloud of smoke. ‘That is certainly the position of the editors of both
The Times
and the
New York Times
,’ he confirmed in a gruff voice. ‘The
New York Times
is making much of the fact that our wireless operators are young Americans. There is talk that if the Russians are going to threaten American lives, the State Department will have to get involved. The
New York Times
has gone so far as to say that Russian seizure of the
Haimun
would be tantamount to a declaration of war against both the United States and Great Britain.’

‘And the American government?’

‘The American State Department is considerably more cautious in its own pronouncements.’

‘What about the Foreign Office?’

‘More cautious still. The legal adviser of Foreign Secretary Lord Lansdowne is appalled that we may have compromised Britain’s neutrality in Russian eyes. He has not been shy about letting our editors know it. And thanks to Admiral Noel’s opposition to the project, the Admiralty Lords have weighed in as well.’ James paused to gauge Morrison’s reaction.

‘You’re right,’ Morrison said. ‘It’s a perfect night for a stroll.’

Having delivered that non sequitur, Morrison rose and strode towards the exit. James, snatching his tobacco and matches from the table, scurried after with a perplexed expression.

It was a mild and moon-silvered night. ‘Our conversation was attracting attention,’ Morrison explained once they were on the
waterfront. ‘In their eagerness to eavesdrop, several correspondents were listing dangerously from their chairs. Now that we are no longer placing them in harm’s way, we are free to talk. What exactly is the opinion of the Admiralty Lords?’

‘It is that issues of neutrality aside, allowing journalists with wireless apparatus to steam willy-nilly about the theatre of war in press boats could set a dangerous precedent. They don’t want anyone trying that when it’s Britain at war.’

‘They have a point,’ Morrison conceded.

‘To make things worse, the commander of Britain’s China Fleet, Sir Cyprian Bridge, was furious to learn that Fraser had enlisted the help of the Royal Navy to raise the wireless mast. Fulminated that it was “a piece of great impertinence”. He learned about it from a guest at his table on board the HMS
Alacrity
.’

‘Insult to injury,’ observed Morrison, imagining the scene. ‘At least you’ve got a fine ship there with the
Haimun
. I’m rather fond of it for its role in transporting the British troops who came to put down the Boxers four years ago.’

‘The
Haimun
is a good vessel,’ James agreed. ‘She can do sixteen knots if pushed. Jolly good crew, too. Captain Passmore is a mulatto who claims a wealthy uncle in Melbourne and a place in the bed of the actress Lillie Langtry. You’d enjoy Passmore. Biggest gossip on the China coast. Our quartermaster’s a hardy Malayan, the wireless operator, Brown, is a good bloke, and Tonami, my Japanese translator, a capital sort. He’s spent time in Europe. Knows Paris as well as he does Tokio. G.E…’ James turned and gripped Morrison’s arm. ‘We sail for Nagasaki at dawn. Come with us. You’ll get a taste of the
Haimun
in action. You’ll see for yourself just what’s at stake. We’re going to change
the future of correspondence, G.E.! We just need to be left alone to do it! Well? Will you come?’

Morrison’s mouth tightened.
I should go. Of course I should
. ‘Can’t do. Business in Shanghai. Urgent business. Very urgent.’ He wondered if he was as transparent as he felt.
What an ass I am
.

‘You can’t delay?’ James asked.

‘No.’ Morrison shook his head. ‘Sadly not.’