A Distant Shore (15 page)

He hesitated, knowing that in these distant waters a ship could just as easily be foe as friend. Yet what choice did he have? Already they had been adrift for too long. This might be their only chance.

He nodded towards his first mate, his heart thudding hard in his chest. “Fire the first rocket.”

He watched as the sailors set the distress signal to light and it rose into the twilit sky, showering sparks high into the air.

“We’ll fire another in an hour,” Henry said. “God willing, we will be seen, and that by a friend.”

The night passed slowly; under a silvery sickle moon it appeared the ship on the horizon was moving closer, but there was no acknowledgement of the three rockets they’d sent up into the sky. Anxiety twisted Henry’s insides. What manner of ship could it be? In the darkness it was impossible to tell.

Dawn broke slowly, shreds of silvery mist lying low over the water, the air heavy and damp. Every man stood on deck, straining through the fog to see if the ship had come closer in the night, or sailed past them forever.

Then it appeared through the shreds of mist now evaporating in the rising sun, slipping silently through the water like a ghost ship. Ragged cheers rose from his crew and then were abruptly silenced as the ship came closer. There could be no mistaking its red sails and brightly painted hull. The ship that now approached them was a Chinese war junk, and most certainly an enemy.

Boston, 1838

Margaret sat on the nursery floor, constructing a tower of wooden blocks with Charlotte. She enjoyed playing with her little cousin, and in truth she found the nursery a far safer and more comforting place than the world of Boston society which Margaret was determined to show her. Not, Maggie, had quickly discovered, that she could be seen in said society as she was now. Margaret had insisted she had some dresses made up for Maggie, and when Maggie had protested the expense, she’d said gently,

“Maggie, my dear. You cannot appear in society in a homespun dress and worn work boots.”

Maggie had flushed and hung her head, and with a soft, sympathetic laugh, Margaret had quickly embraced her. “I was once like you, my dear. I came to this country having been no farther than Oban, back in Scotland. I was quite overwhelmed, and in truth I don’t think Henry’s parents were too taken with me, at least at first.”

“But you seem so elegant now,” Maggie had protested, her voice muffled against Margaret’s shoulder.

“And so will you! I want you to enjoy yourself, Maggie, new dresses included. Isn’t that you came? To have an adventure and experience something new?”

Wordlessly Maggie had nodded… yet just two weeks after her arrival, here she was hiding in the nursery.

The sudden clatter of the tower of blocks toppling to the floor jerked Maggie out of her own thoughts.

“I’m bored,” Charlotte complained, her pretty, childish face turned into a pout. “Can’t we do something else, Maggie? Building towers is for babies.”

“Is it now?” Maggie said, amused. “Well, then, how about we play school? You shall be going to school one day, won’t you?” Charlotte shrugged, and Maggie wondered if her aunt would send the girl to one of the new ‘kindergartens’ starting in the city, or have her educated by a governess at home. “Well, anyway, you’ll need to know your letters and numbers. Why don’t we make a start?” And smiling she fetched a slate and chalk and began to write Charlotte’s name on it.

Charlotte loves seeing her name on the slate, and after just a few minutes she was recognizing the letters and numbers Maggie wrote. They played happily for a little while, with Charlotte telling Maggie what words to write, when footsteps sounded, followed by the creak of the door.

Maggie looked up, smiling awkwardly as Margaret appeared, elegant as always. She scrambled from the floor, aware that her hair had half-fallen down and there was dust on the skirt of her dress.

“Well, here you both are,” Margaret said with a smile. Charlotte rushed towards her mother, and Margaret clasped her to her before the little girl squirmed away and ran to retrieve the slate Maggie still held.

“Look what we’ve been doing, Mama,” she exclaimed, and thrust the slate towards Margaret.

“Just a bit of fun,” Maggie said quickly, and Margaret glanced down at the slate.

“Why you’ve been learning your letters, Charlotte,” Margaret said in surprise, and lowered the slate to give Maggie a rather considering look. “I just came up here to tell you some of the dresses we had made have arrived. Why don’t you try them on?”

Maggie nodded rather dumbly, and her glance still considering, Margaret looked once again at the slate.

It was later, when Maggie had tried on a pretty dress in pink sprigged cotton, surely the nicest thing she’d ever worn, that Margaret brought up her time with Charlotte.

“You have a way with children, I think,” she said, adjusting the sash of Maggie’s dress, and Maggie shifted uncomfortably, unused to being scrutinized bout inside and out. “I like children, Aunt Margaret. And I’m used to looking after George and Anna.”

“Of course,” Margaret murmured. “It’s only—your suggestion to help with the First School—would you still consider it?”

Maggie turned to her in surprise. “Teaching?”

“Yes. Isobel is likely to be leaving, and it will be difficult to find a teacher at such short notice. I wouldn’t expect you to teach everyday, of course, and I’d come with you. I wouldn’t mind being back in the classroom, for a little while at least. We close the school for August, so you could start in September. If you think you’d enjoy it…”

“I’d love it,” Maggie said honestly. She’d much rather be in a schoolroom, with people whose experience was closer to her own, than feeling stiff and awkward in the drawing rooms of Boston’s best.

Margaret smiled wryly, as if she guessed the nature of Maggie’s thoughts. “I did want you to enjoy yourself here, my dear—”

“I will enjoy myself,” Maggie insisted. “Much more. And there will still be time to see the sights and meet people, won’t there? Especially if the school is closed for August.”

“Yes, of course there will,” Margaret answered. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Kowloon, 1838

“Your presence is requested by Commissioner Zexu.”

Henry turned towards the door at the sound of the Chinese bureaucrat’s precise English. For the last three weeks he had been sequestered in this small room in the military fort of Kowloon’s Walled City, ever since the Chinese war junk had rescued them after the mast of
The Charlotte Rose
had cracked—and most likely led them into more danger.

“I shall come at once,” he said with only a trace of irony, for despite the Commissioner’s hospitable treatment, it was quite clear that Henry had little choice in the matter, or in any matter since his arrival. He’d been separated from his crew, kept in a small room in the city’s fort, and while he’d been given food and drink and clothing, he’d had no contact with anyone, no writing or reading materials or any way to pass the endless hours except with the ferment of his own thoughts.

After twenty-one days of this comfortable isolation, he was ready to tear at the walls.

He followed the servant who led him down a long hallway and then out into the main compound of the fort. Henry blinked in the bright sunlight, the strangeness of the sights still amazing him even after three weeks in the Walled City. Chinese soldiers trained with long wooden staffs, their robe-like garments and loose trousers so different from the Western military uniform Henry was used to.

The servant skirted the training soldiers and led him to a door on the opposite side of the fort, and into the presence of Lin Zexu, a high official in the Quing Dynasty and a fierce opponent of America and Britain’s opium trade with China.

He turned as Henry entered, his smile visible beneath his long white beard even though his eyes were narrowed in speculative assessment. “Mr. Moore. I trust your time in Kowloon has been comfortable?”

“Indeed, very much so,” Henry answered as he sketched a short bow, “although I would like to inquire as to the welfare of my men.” Henry had not seen any of his crew since they’d arrived in Kowloon, and he’d spent many hours of anxiety over their well-being.

“Your men are all well cared for, I assure you.”

“I would still like to see them.” Henry tried to pitch his voice between politeness and iron.

“In due course, perhaps.” Zexu stroked his thin beard, his narrowed gaze still fastened on Henry. “You are aware, of course, that China and Great Britain are on the brink of a war?”

Henry tensed although he kept his voice even. “And you are surely aware, Mr. Zexu, that I am American and have no quarrel with China.”

“Yet we have a quarrel with your country, Mr. Moore.”

Tension snapped through him and he kept his hands from clenching with effort. “Indeed? I did not know of it.”

“Your innocence borders on stupidity, Mr. Moore.” Henry didn’t rise to the bait, and Zexu stared at him broodingly for a long moment before turning away. “Last year nine hundred tons of opium were smuggled into my country, Mr. Moore, and some of that came from America.” Still Henry said nothing. “Some of that, indeed, came from the city of your origin, Mr. Moore,” Zexu considered, his voice dropping to a suggestive murmur. “Boston, I believe.”

“I am from Boston,” Henry agreed levelly. “But I have no trade in opium, Mr. Zexu. It is a foul business.”

“It is a foul business,” Zexu agreed quietly, but Henry could still hear the venom lacing his words. “To see a man in the throes of an opium addiction—it is shameful, dreadful. And it is happening to thousands of my countrymen, supplied by yours.”

“Not me.”

“Why were you coming to China, Mr. Moore?”

Henry kept his gaze and voice both level. “To purchase tea. It is a valuable commodity in my country, as I’m sure you know.”

Zexu turned around, his thin eyebrows raised in polite incredulity. “Am I expected to believe that you traveled halfway across the world with an empty hold, Mr. Moore? In these trying times?”

“Indeed it is so, Mr Zexu. Your country does not import any goods, as you know.”

“And yet,” Zexu said softly, “so much opium finds its way onto our shores.”

“You searched my ship,” Henry reminded him. “You saw for yourself the hold was empty.”

“You had sufficient time to offload your cargo,” Zexu replied. “Indeed, only last month I managed to empty twenty thousand chests of opium into the harbor of Canton in the space of just a few hours.” He smiled coolly. “An act which will surely precipitate a war with Britain.”