Snake Bite

CHAPTER FIVE

Standing on the quayside, Sherlock was impressed by the city wall looming over everything. The stonework was in obvious disrepair, but he could also see scars that looked like they might have been the result of cannonballs striking the walls and bouncing off. The scars looked fresh — the stone beneath was still bright, not darkened with age and not covered with moss. It looked as if there had been some kind of fighting around the city in the not too distant past. He wondered what had happened — and whether it was likely to happen again while he was there.

Off to the right was a city gate. Guards in flared metal helmets and brightly coloured uniforms were stopping everyone who wanted to enter the town — questioning them and checking their papers. Again, it was evidence that there was unrest in this country. He hoped things would be quiet while he was here. The locals could have whatever wars and battles they wanted, as long as they waited until the Gloria Scott had left.

He watched as various people walked past him. The Chinese were mostly dressed in variations on the baggy wraparound robes that he’d seen earlier on the ship, although some had a combination of loose trousers with a round-collared shirt. The materials were all embroidered, patterned or dyed in bright colours. It was very different from the browns, greys and blacks that he was used to in England, but he found that some things were still the same. He could tell various trades by the signs that they left behind. One man, coming towards him, was in his thirties but had hands that looked as though they belonged to someone much older — wrinkled and white. He probably ran a laundry, and spent most of his working day with his hands in hot soapy water. Another man had a tanned face and arms, but his hands were dead white. He was probably a baker, and the whiteness was caused by flour coating his skin. Several cooks passed by — they, like Wu Chung, had hands covered with tiny cuts. Numerous passers-by had wrinkles and patches of mud on their trousers, and Sherlock tentatively classified them as farmers who spent a lot of time kneeling down and either planting or pulling up vegetables.

Remembering the envelope that Mr Larchmont had given him, he pulled it from the pocket that he’d stashed it in and examined the contents. It was a loose collection of copper coins of various kinds. They weren’t British currency. Most of them had square holes in them and odd symbols around the edges. He presumed that they were Chinese. He supposed that made sense — there was no point in paying the crew in pounds sterling if the local businesses only took local currency. He had no way of knowing what value the coins were, or whether they added up to a fair wage for the many weeks he’d spent on board the Gloria Scott, but he found that he didn’t particularly care. Money had never been that important to him. Matty had never understood that about him.

Before he could decide what to do next, two things happened at the same time: a hand grabbed the envelope, and something struck him hard in the small of his back, sending him sprawling forward. He managed to twist as he fell so that it was his back that hit the ground rather than his chest. He could feel stones digging into his skin.

Three dark-haired boys were grouped together where he had been standing. They were all about his size. Despite their obvious youth the one who had taken his envelope had a thin moustache and the boy on his right had a straggly beard. The third boy was clean-shaven but his hair was long and greasy.

Around them, people walked past as if nothing untoward was happening. It was as if they were in their own little bubble, separate from the rest of the world.

‘You don’t need this, do you?’ the one holding the envelope said in Cantonese. He held the envelope up, smiling. ‘Just say if you want it back.’

The three boys laughed.

‘Yes, I want it back,’ Sherlock said, also in Cantonese, as he climbed to his feet and brushed the dust from his clothes.

The boys stared at him, surprised. ‘You speak Yue?’ the greasy-haired one exclaimed. ‘I didn’t think white barbarians could learn our language!’

‘I can do more than speak your language,’ Sherlock said darkly. ‘Give that back.’

‘Or what?’ the bearded youth sneered.

He found his hands and feet naturally assuming T’ai chi ch’uan defensive positions. ‘Or I’ll take it back.’

The boy glanced at his friends. ‘One against three? Hardly fair. One of us could defeat three of you, little boy.’

‘Numbers aren’t important. I want it back more than you want to keep it.’

‘And besides,’ another voice said in accented Cantonese from one side, ‘it’s not one against three — it’s two against three. The two of us can take the three of you easily.’

The boys all turned their heads to see who was speaking. Sherlock took the opportunity to step forward and snatch his pay from the boy who had taken it. The boy’s head spun back, and he grabbed for the envelope, but Sherlock stepped out of the way.

On the other side of the boys stood a Western youth of about Sherlock’s age and about Sherlock’s height. He was thin and he wore metal-rimmed spectacles. His hair was blond, almost white: it was swept back from his forehead and it was long enough to fall over his ears and collar. His clothes were Chinese, but somehow newer and cleaner than the ones that everyone else was wearing.

The youth with the moustache stepped forward and reached for Sherlock’s envelope at the same time that his friends decided to remove the newcomer from the equation. One of them — the bearded one — reached out to push the blond boy’s shoulder while the other one — the one with greasy hair — tried to step past him and put a foot behind his leg so that if he moved backwards to avoid the shove he would trip over.

Sherlock grabbed the approaching wrist with his right hand and then twisted his whole body underneath it. The boy jerked forward, forced over by the pressure on his arm. Sherlock glanced at the newcomer. The blond boy easily deflected the hand moving towards his shoulder. He stepped forward rather than backwards, throwing the boy with the greasy hair off balance. His right hand shot out, fingers curled so that the heel of the hand slammed into the bearded youth’s ribcage. The youth doubled up in pain. Before the one with greasy hair could react, the blond newcomer lashed out with his elbow, catching him in the face. Greasy Hair jerked back, blood streaming from his nose.

Sherlock felt the boy whose arm he was twisting trying to pull away. He twisted harder. The boy lashed backwards with a foot, but Sherlock had anticipated the movement and sidestepped him. He released the boy’s wrist, but before the boy could turn around Sherlock kicked him hard in the buttocks. The boy sprawled forward, into the dust.

‘Best leave now,’ the blond boy said in English. He pulled Sherlock into a run. ‘Bravado is all very well, but there are three of them, and they’ve been studying martial arts since they were five years old.’

‘We didn’t do too badly.’

‘We were lucky. We caught them by surprise.’ He looked around. ‘And they have friends nearby. I know what they’re like. Despite the fact that they spend their lives talking about honourable behaviour, they have no honour themselves when it comes to foreigners. One shout and we could find ourselves up against a crowd.’

‘Good point,’ Sherlock conceded.

Together they ran through the crowd, twisting and turning in case the Chinese boys were following. The blond boy changed direction several times. Eventually he led Sherlock behind a stall selling dishes of fish in some kind of sauce. A group of crates had been left on the grass, and he gestured to Sherlock to sit down.

‘Thanks for rescuing me,’ Sherlock said. ‘I appreciate the assistance.’

‘No problem,’ the boy said. He slipped his glasses off and polished them with a handkerchief he took from his pocket. ‘My name is Cameron. Cameron Mackenzie.’

‘Sherlock,’ Sherlock replied. ‘Sherlock Scott Holmes.’

‘You’re off the ship that’s just come in,’ Cameron said. He wasn’t asking a question — he seemed to already know. ‘But you’re not like an ordinary sailor. You’re younger than most of them, and you didn’t head straight for the taverns like they do.’ He laughed — a quick huff of air, gone as soon as Sherlock heard it. ‘They get their money when they leave the ships and they’ve usually spent it by the time they get to the city gates — not that the guards would let them in. Shanghai is still a town in isolation.’ He spoke in English, although there was an accent in his voice that Sherlock thought was familiar.

‘You obviously live here,’ Sherlock said in return. ‘Your Cantonese is excellent. But you’re originally American, aren’t you? I recognize the accent.’

Cameron nodded. ‘Well, my father is. We came here when I was five.’ He mopped his forehead with the handkerchief, and slipped his glasses back on. ‘My father is a local shipping agent. He buys cargoes from the ships that dock here and then sells them on to the Chinese businessmen at a profit. That’s how I knew your ship had arrived. I saw you come down the gangway later than everyone else. I also saw that you were about my age, so I thought I’d say hello. Then those apes tried to take your money, so I decided to lend a hand. I hope you don’t mind.’

‘Not at all,’ Sherlock replied. ‘I take it you spend a lot of time here at the quayside, watching the ships arriving and departing.’

Cameron nodded. He looked away, seemingly slightly embarrassed. ‘I don’t remember much about America,’ he said eventually. ‘In fact, I think that even the things I do remember are just dreams, or things I’ve invented or that I’ve read somewhere. I like to talk to people who have recently arrived to see if they’ve been to America, and if they can tell me about it.’

‘I’ve been to New York,’ Sherlock said. ‘Only for a week or so, but I did get out into the countryside. Do you want to hear about it?’

Cameron nodded eagerly. ‘My father is from Chicago,’ he said. ‘But New York will do. It’s another big city.’ He paused, thinking. ‘I know — rather than sit here in the dark, do you want to come to my house? I’m sure Mother and Father won’t mind you having dinner with us.’

‘If you’re certain that will be all right,’ Sherlock said.

‘I am.’ Cameron glanced critically at Sherlock’s sailor’s clothes. ‘Although, knowing Mother, she will insist that you change into some of my old clothes. She’s a stickler for dressing properly for dinner.’

‘We’re about the same size,’ Sherlock estimated.

‘All right. Come on then.’

Cameron led the way back to the road, and then towards the city gates. Looking behind him, Sherlock noticed the long, low white ship that he had seen earlier, from the deck of the Gloria Scott.

‘What’s that ship?’ he asked. ‘You know all the arrivals.’

Cameron followed Sherlock’s pointing finger with his gaze. ‘That’s an American warship. It’s called the USS Monocacy. It docked yesterday.’

‘A warship?’ Sherlock asked, remembering the cannonball marks on the city walls. ‘There’s not going to be a war, is there?’

‘Not right now. It’s a goodwill visit. The Captain of the Monocacy is asking for permission to sail up the Yangtze River. He says that his orders are to prepare better maps of the region. He’s already paid a courtesy call on my father, as the most important American in the area.’

‘What happened to the funnel?’ Sherlock asked.

‘You spotted that? I heard the Captain tell my father that they lost it in a storm, but that they put in for repairs in a port in Japan.’

Sherlock got nervous as they approached the town walls, remembering the guards that he had seen earlier, but the guards obviously recognized Cameron and waved him in. They ignored Sherlock entirely — presumably if he was with someone who was allowed in then he was allowed in too.

‘This is the “Gate of the Leaping Dragon”,’ Cameron explained as they went through. ‘There are fourteen gates in total.’

As they passed into the town, Cameron turned to Sherlock. ‘The town has only been opened up to foreigners in the past few years. Before that we had to live in a special area outside the town walls, and if we wanted to do business then people had to come to us. We weren’t allowed in to see them.’

‘What changed?’ Sherlock asked.

Cameron smiled. ‘Great Britain went to war with China to force the country to open up and allow foreigners in.’

‘We obviously won,’ Sherlock conceded. ‘I don’t remember hearing about it, though.’

‘You did win. My father will probably want to thank you in person.’

Sherlock thought of his brother, who had some kind of important job in the British Government. ‘I’ll pass his thanks on,’ he said.

Cameron laughed — the same quick snort that he had given before. ‘Of course, even though the Chinese authorities have let us into the town, they still make sure that all the foreigners are clustered together in one area, and there are regular police patrols to make sure we don’t wander too far. They don’t like us dressing in Chinese clothes either. If they notice me they always tell me off.’

The buildings in the town were unlike anything Sherlock had seen before. Most of them were only one or two storeys tall, and rather than being set in gardens, as English buildings would be, they appeared to be built around gardens. The roofs of the houses were amazingly ornate, covered with coloured tiles and usually curling upwards at the corners, and many of the residences had small statues outside the door, usually of fat, self-contented bald men, but Sherlock guessed there was more to them than met the eye. On street corners, and in small open areas between the houses, there were also statues of what Sherlock assumed were mythical animals. They mostly looked like a cross between dogs and lions, but some of them had horns and others had wings.

‘Bixie, Qilin and Tianlu,’ Cameron said, noticing his interest. Sherlock didn’t recognize the words, and Cameron didn’t elaborate.

The Mackenzie family residence wasn’t far from the city gates. From the outside it looked like all the other houses. Cameron knocked on the front door. An elderly man in a dark suit opened it.

‘Master Cameron — your mother was beginning to worry.’ His voice was quiet and dry.

Cameron pushed past him. ‘I’m fine, Harris. I’m always fine.’ He turned and indicated Sherlock. ‘This is a friend of mine. His name is Sherlock — Sherlock Holmes. He’s going to be staying for dinner.’

‘Very well.’ Harris nodded his head slightly at Sherlock, and held the door open so that he could enter. ‘I will notify Cook. I presume you will be notifying your parents?’

‘I’ll do that now.’ Cameron indicated that Sherlock should follow him. ‘Come on — I’ll introduce you.’

Sherlock didn’t know what the interior of a proper Chinese house would be like, but the interior of the Mackenzie house was surprisingly similar to that of his aunt and uncle’s house. It had similar dark wood panelling, similar tiled flooring in the hall, similar deep carpets in the main rooms and a similarly random selection of art scattered around. The only difference was that the artworks in the Holmes household were landscapes and paintings of horses, whereas the artworks in the Mackenzie household were mainly small statuettes of dragons and paintings of elderly Chinese men with long white beards.

Sherlock felt out of place in his sailor’s clothes. He shifted uneasily, but Cameron didn’t seem to notice. He pulled Sherlock eagerly into a side room.

‘Mother, Father — I’ve brought a friend for dinner. Is that all right?’

The room was obviously a sitting room — comfortable chairs, side tables and a relaxed feeling. There was a man in one of the chairs, reading a newspaper. He was probably in his mid-forties, Sherlock guessed, with short hair that was black on top but greying at the temples. He was smoking a pipe. A woman was sitting near him, sewing. She was wearing a dress that looked to Sherlock as if it was made locally — scarlet silk embroidered with green fronds. Her hair was copper-red, and Sherlock noticed that her eyes were green. She was dressing to complement her complexion. She glanced up with a smile as Cameron entered.

‘Darling — we were wondering where you were. We don’t mind you bringing friends back for dinner, but not one of those Chinese boys, and not without a little advance notice.’ She caught sight of Sherlock. ‘Oh. Hello.’

Sherlock bowed his head. It seemed like the polite thing to do. ‘I’m sorry for intruding,’ he said. ‘I met Cameron earlier. He helped me out when I was in trouble. My name is Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.’

Cameron’s father stood up and put his newspaper to one side. He extended a hand to shake Sherlock’s hand.

‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Mr Mackenzie, and this is my wife. Welcome to our house. There aren’t many Western boys around here for Cameron to make friends with, so we’re more than pleased to have you here.’ He gazed critically at Sherlock’s clothes. ‘Just off a ship, I presume. The Gloria Scott?’

Sherlock nodded, embarrassed. ‘It’s a long story—’ he started to say, but Mrs Mackenzie shushed him. ‘Time for stories later. Cameron, take Sherlock upstairs and let him try on some of your clothes. You are going to need to dress for dinner as well. The Captain and the senior officers of the USS Monocacy are dining with us tonight.’ She wrinkled her nose at Sherlock. ‘Normally we wouldn’t be quite so formal, but you know what ship’s captains are like.

He thought back to Captain Tollaway. ‘Ye-es,’ he said carefully. ‘Mr Mackenzie… Mrs Mackenzie… I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble. It would be wrong of me to intrude if you’ve got dinner guests coming. It’s probably best if I go.’

He tried to ignore Cameron’s face, which was almost comical in its combination of disbelief and disappointment.

Mr Mackenzie slapped Sherlock on the shoulder. ‘Good manners,’ he said. ‘Exactly what I’d expect from a Brit. Don’t worry about it, son — we’ve got enough food and enough chairs, and I guarantee you’ll eat better here than anywhere else you might end up. The matter’s settled.’

‘Malcolm…’ Mrs Mackenzie started. Her husband looked at her. She looked at Sherlock, then back at him. She was obviously trying to convey a message.

‘Son — where are you staying?’ Malcolm Mackenzie asked.

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer the question, then realized that he didn’t really have an answer. ‘I… I suppose I’m staying on the ship,’ he replied hesitantly. ‘On the Gloria Scott.’

Mrs Mackenzie kept staring at her husband. After a few seconds he said, ‘Nonsense. You’re staying here, with us, for as long as you’re in port. Cameron obviously likes you, and that’s a good thing. He doesn’t often get on with other boys.’

‘Apparently I’m too critical,’ Cameron said quietly. ‘Which means that I tell people what I think, rather than what they want to hear.’

‘If you can cope with that,’ Mr Mackenzie said, ‘then you’re welcome here.’ He checked the watch that hung from a chain on his waistcoat. ‘Dinner’s in an hour. You two get upstairs, get scrubbed up and get dressed up. And be on your best behaviour — Captain Bryan is an important man.’

Cameron led Sherlock not upstairs — as far as Sherlock could tell there was no upstairs — but along a corridor and then out through a doorway into a square central area that was open to the sky. It was beautifully landscaped, with boulders and small trees, and benches where people could sit. Brightly coloured paper lanterns had been hung around the edges, casting a kaleidoscope of light across the skirting paths but leaving the middle in relative darkness. The occasional night bird swooped by with a rush of wings.

Cameron crossed to the other side. Cameron’s room was filled with models of ships and pictures of what Sherlock assumed were American street scenes, complete with horses and carts.

The blond-haired boy threw open a wardrobe and gestured at the clothes hanging up inside. ‘Find yourself something smart,’ he said. ‘Jacket and trousers. My father will be wearing evening dress, and Mother will wear a gown, but they won’t expect us to be all dressed up like that. As long as we’re smart, we’ll be all right.’

Sherlock stared at the array of clothes in amazement. He had forgotten all about having more than one set of clothes, about the social graces, about dressing for dinner and using the right cutlery.

‘I’ll have the maid draw two baths for us,’ Cameron said, interrupting his thoughts. ‘Looking at you, I’d say you haven’t had a hot bath for a while.’

After so long spent ploughing across the ocean, Sherlock wasn’t sure that he wanted to see water again, but after a few moments staring at the free-standing bath and waiting for some kind of emotional reaction to occur, he slipped gingerly beneath the water. It was warm, and it seemed to envelop him and caress him as he lay there, feeling his muscles relax and the accreted layers of salt and grime that had built up since leaving England start to dissolve away.

When they were both dressed they headed back towards the rest of the house. Sherlock could hear voices raised in conversation.

Malcolm Mackenzie and his wife were welcoming their guests into the garden. Chinese servants were circulating with trays of drinks. The butler — Harris — was standing off to one side, watching to make sure all the guests were happy.

The guests from the USS Monocacy were wearing uniforms: navy-blue frock coats with two rows of gilt buttons running from top to bottom, navy-blue trousers and white caps with gold chains around the peak. There were also one or two men in evening dress, whom Sherlock assumed were business acquaintances of Mr Mackenzie. Mrs Mackenzie was the only woman there, but she didn’t seem at all embarrassed by the fact. On the contrary, she was moving easily among the guests, making sure that everyone had a drink and someone to talk with.

‘I hate these parties,’ Cameron said morosely. ‘I always end up talking to the most boring person present. The problem is that I usually tell them so.’

‘You’re talking to me,’ Sherlock pointed out.

‘Yes, but tonight is different.’ Cameron gestured to a passing servant, who came over with a tray containing glasses of champagne. Cameron took two glasses, and passed one to Sherlock. ‘Here, this should make the evening pass quicker.’

Captain Bryan was easily recognizable. He was the oldest man there, and the amount of gold braid and the number of gold stars on his uniform made him difficult to miss. He also had the loudest voice, and Sherlock listened as he told the story of how the funnel of the Monocacy had been ripped off like tissue paper by a waterspout that had swept over the ship off the coast of Japan.

‘I’ve been meaning to ask,’ Mrs Mackenzie interrupted when it became clear that the Captain could talk all night without stopping, ‘what is the significance of the name of your vessel? Monocacy sounds as if it should be a form of government where only one person can rule!’

‘Ma’am, the Monocacy River is a tributary of the mighty Potomac River,’ the Captain answered, changing conversational direction with graceful charm. ‘The name comes from the original Shawnee Indian name for the river, Monnockkesey, which, I am told by those who know, translates as “river with many bends”.’ He glanced around his audience, and continued, ‘The Battle of Monocacy Junction was fought during the War Between the States, six years ago now, and our fine ship was named in honour of that battle, lest otherwise it be forgotten…’

Mention of the War Between the States reminded Sherlock of his time in and around New York, and of his confrontation with the bizarre Duke Balthassar. The man had been on the Confederate side — the losing side — and he had planned to set up a new Confederate nation in Canada. Whatever had happened in America, it seemed that the scars ran deep.

‘How very splendid,’ Mrs Mackenzie said, breaking into his thoughts. ‘I’m afraid we have been away from our home country for so long, and news arrives so late here, that we only had the sketchiest idea of what was happening with the Confederates and the Unionists.’ She rested a hand on the Captain’s forearm. ‘Was it… very terrible?’ she asked in a quieter voice.

He patted her hand reassuringly. ‘Ma’am, it is never easy or pleasant when a country tries to rip itself apart, when father is pitted against son and brother is pitted against brother. But we must remember that America is a young country, and is made up of many different parts, most of which have some kind of disagreement with another part. Squabbles can be expected.’

‘Not just young countries,’ Malcolm Mackenzie said, joining the group. ‘China is an ancient country, but there are rebellious elements within it even now, and fighting breaks out from time to time.’

Sherlock remembered the cannonball scars on the town’s walls. That would explain what had happened — there had been some kind of fight for control of the town between different elements. He moved closer to hear more.

‘The majority of the local population are known as “Han” Chinese,’ Mackenzie went on, ‘and they have been living here for hundreds, if not thousands of years. The trouble is that the rulers are the descendants of an invading force known as the “Manchus”, who came from the north. The Qing dynasty that controls China is entirely made up of Manchu Chinese, and the Han are the ruled.’

‘I presume that the Han aren’t happy about that?’ Captain Bryan asked.

‘Actually, most of them don’t care one way or another, as long as they get to live their lives in peace,’ Mackenzie replied. ‘But there has been a small and persistent rebellion by elements of the Han against the Qing over the past twenty years. It’s locally known as the Taiping Rebellion because of where it started. Every now and then there is a fight somewhere, or a town is taken over by the rebels and then liberated. Shanghai itself fell to a group called “The Small Swords Society” in 1853, but it was retaken by the Qing within a few weeks. Between 1860 and 1862, the Taiping rebels twice attacked the town and destroyed its eastern and southern suburbs, but they failed to actually capture the place. Their aim is to get the Manchu invaders to leave, but the Qing dynasty don’t consider themselves invaders any more, and the rebels have no clear plan to get them to leave. So it keeps fizzling on and on.’

Cameron tugged at Sherlock’s sleeve. ‘Come on — this is boring. Let’s find somewhere in the garden where we can sit and talk about America.’

He turned to go, obviously certain that Sherlock was going to follow him, but he bumped into a man who was passing behind him. The man was wearing evening dress, and the white of his collar and cuffs threw into sharp relief the silvery-blue colour of the skin on his face and hands.

It was Mr Arrhenius.