The Secret Mandarin. Sara Sheridan

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      ‘Will you leave me there?’ I asked plainly.

      My hands were still quivering.

      ‘We are bound for Hong Kong,’ he said quietly. ‘I have paid your passage.’

      The truth was, of course, that Robert did not trust me to stay in India. I can hardly blame him. Shortly after we embarked he amended his original plan. He discarded Calcutta and chose to take me somewhere remote that had the advantage of a less regular passage, as well as being a hub for his own voyage. His plan was to use Hong Kong as a rallying point at the end of his trip. He would therefore be able to check on me over time. It made sense now I thought of it.

      ‘I see,’ I said, hiding my surprise.

      ‘We have another eleven weeks or so. The current to the other side will bear us more swiftly.’

      I hung my head. I knew the currents around the African coastline only too well. I had to be practical and control myself. Robert took my silence for fear.

      ‘There are no monsoons at this time of year, Mary. I trust Captain Barraclough. He is prudent.’

      This half-hearted attempt at comfort annoyed me but I said nothing. I was further and further from London, that was all. At least now I knew.

      ‘Did you tell Jane that I am here?’

      Robert nodded. ‘As briefly as I could,’ he said.

      I suppose that was fair of him.

      That night I stayed up late. As the humidity increased I found myself keener on the clear, balmy, black skies than the midday swelter. I excused myself from Robert’s cabin and took a turn around the deck. The wide sky was breathtaking, more pinprick stars coming into focus every minute. The only sound was the boat cutting through the water, slapping against the swell. I have always been a night owl rather than a lark. It felt like a very long voyage as we sailed into the inky blackness ahead. I was childish, I suppose, but with tears on my cheeks I surreptitiously snapped the stem of one of Robert’s stupid plants in a silent rebellion. I ripped the bright flower to pieces and threw it over the side.

      When we came to cross the equator, the traditional initiation to the Southern Hemisphere was due for anyone who had not passed that way before. The ship was all excitement and the cabin boy—the only person on board who had not been that way before—was nowhere to be found.

      On my first voyage it was only the ladies who had not previously crossed the line. The crew showered us with buckets of seawater on deck and we toasted our luck with Madeira. It had been a fête of good spirits. The Braganza’s cabin boy, however, was not treated so kindly—he was found hiding in an empty barrel. They bound his hands with rope and then hauled him over the side. He emerged minutes later, spluttering, bruises appearing on his childish skin and bad cuts where the rope had chafed him. The crew made him drink more than he was able, holding his nose and pouring rum down his throat.

      ‘Enough of that!’ I said, horrified. ‘Enough. Stop it!’ But no one listened and my voice was lost in the jeers of the horde, while Robert held my arm tightly in his grip as we watched from a distance. I expect he worried that I might fling myself among the sailors and attempt a rescue.

      My eyes filled with tears though I knew it was foolish. It had not been so long since I spluttered seawater myself.

      ‘It’s cruel,’ I said simply. ‘That boy is so young.’

      ‘Sometimes you are too soft, Mary,’ Robert chided me. ‘I hope you are not going to make a fuss. It will be worse for the lad if you do.’

      I let it be though my blood boiled. The life at sea is hard and I did not at that time realise that being half drowned was the least of the child’s worries. Drunk and exhausted they let him fall asleep.

      Later that day, alone in my cabin, I put my mind to remembering everything I had heard about Hong Kong. It was an island; I had seen that on the map. And it had not long been British. The London Times had been sceptical when China had handed it over. They said the place was hardly worth taking. The truth was that it sounded even worse than Calcutta—some god-awful backwater full of second-rate pioneers. As I stacked the now useless Indian books in one corner of my trunk, I resolved to ask Robert to let me read some of his books about China because, apart from this scanty impression, a Chinese embroidered shawl the wardrobe mistress used at Drury Lane, and a beautiful lacquered cabinet William had in his London drawing room, I knew not one thing about where we were going.

      My bougainvillea was already wilted and I slipped the faded bloom inside a flyleaf to press it as I packed my things away. ‘The colour was bound to dampen down,’ I thought sadly and wondered if Hong Kong might supply as steady a contingent of suitable husbands as had been expected from the Indian colony.

      ‘Is this the best I can hope for?’ I asked myself but, of course, there was no one to reply.

      There was still a long way to travel. Even by the time we had reached the Cape of Africa we had not yet covered half the miles. It felt as if I had spent a whole year at sea. When we encountered the storm it scared me more than I expected. Thankfully, my voyage home through these waters had been uneventful, the variety of weather limited. This time the sea reared mountainously and we were closeted below decks. The petty officer escorted us to the hold. The ship was keeling so hard that it was difficult to remain on the wooden bench, though it was bolted to the floor.

      ‘You will not lock us in,’ I begged.

      The officer did not answer me. He directed his comments to Robert.

      ‘Stay below decks,’ he said. ‘It is safer. Some will be swept away in this.’

      Then he fastened his greatcoat and left.

      We were below for hours as the weather raged. The winds were high, the water towering exactly as it had the day the Regatta went down. Robert paced up and down, worried only about his Ward’s cases, while every tiny creak had my heart pounding as I waited for the ship to split in two. This time would I be lucky enough to be driven towards the shore or would I be swept further south to the open ocean? Robert hardly noticed my anxiety, such was his concern for his plants. He muttered under his breath about the ropes holding the canvas covers he had fitted in place. He worried about how low the temperature might drop or if the cases would flood. He had no sense of our mortal danger at all. From time to time a sodden deckhand passed and sent up another man to relieve him.

      At last, after several hours, Robert could not bear the uncertainty. Despite the petty officer’s warning he pulled on his coat and went to check the damage. The ship pitched and rolled. The storm had not abated. I thought longingly of home. Not London, but my childhood home. I admit, it crossed my mind that should Robert be swept away I would return there. When he did come back I could see he had properly realised our peril. He was drenched to the skin, his pink flesh icy and a cut on his leg.

      ‘One case has smashed,’ he reported, indicating the bloody slit. He must have fallen against the broken glass. ‘The one with the bougainvillea,’ he said absentmindedly, for the plants were less important to him now he had seen the height of the storm.

      At that moment there was a loud crash above us as some part of the rigging came free on deck. I screamed, my whole body taut, waiting for the force of the water to smash everything and toss us away. Robert placed a hand on each of my shoulders and shook me.

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