The King

m'seurs. Zese Chinetoque, zey manger zese potage… mak zem…' He could not think of the English word, so he rammed an expressive fist at them, grasping his arm at the elbow. 'Pour ze old homme wiz ze fair jeune fille, n 'est-ce pas! Mak 'Iverge' formidable, ha ha!'

'Like oysters!' Burgess cried in delight. 'For renewed vigor with the ladies. God, as many sharks as we saw on the voyage here, I wish we'd known of it. Do they pay dear for them, then?'

'Ah, mais oui, m'seur!' Monnot agreed heartily. 'Un feen, zey pay trois, quatre livresl' he told them with an expansive Gallic shrug. 'Vee 'ave beaucoup feen, mak beaucoup livres, hah! Bon!'

'Well, damme,' Alan commented. 'Merci, M'seur Monnot.'

'Vee 'ave also ze ginseng, m'seurs. Vair good. Same, aussi.'

'Monnot, allez vite! Revenir aux travaille!' some petty officer barked, and the man bowed his departure, leaving Chiswick and Lewrie to stroll among the boxes and crates as he went back to work.

'I never heard that ginseng was a restorative in the Caroli-nas,' Burgess said. 'Made a good, healthful tea, was all we used it for. Mother swears by it, but it's hard to find. Maybe I should buy her some and ship it home. Well, there were some slaves who said it was an aphrodisiac, but you couldn't put much stock in some of their tales.'

'And furs,' Alan pointed out.

'Oh, yes. Mister Twigg said the Chinese don't have many good furs. Have to come from Russia or somewhere. Ermine, sable, glutton, mink or such'll sell dear here in Canton. I met one of those Yankee Doodle skippers this morning. Said he'd been to the Nootka Sound on the Bering Sea. He was trading furs. Quite profitable, he told me.'

'My, you have been busy this morning,' Alan snickered.

'Them that had a little English,' Burgess allowed with a shrug as they idled against a stack of crates to watch the coolies and the French crew unload a junk that had lightered their cargo up from Whampoa Reach. 'Rest of it was way over my head. Never thought I'd have to learn anything more than a little Cherokee back home. I'm lucky I can savvy just enough Hindee so Nandu and my subadar don't cock their heads and look at me queer. I say… good pelts, those. That Yankee captain didn't have better.'

'What do they sell for?' Alan asked idly, finding the spying business a dead bore as the hot afternoon wore on.

'He told me he'd get almost one hundred of their dollars for a pelt,' Burgess informed him.

'Hmm, wonder what that is in real money?' Alan mused aloud.

'I think it's somewhere between five and six pounds sterling. But here's the profitable part, Alan. The Nootka Sound Indians'll swap you a prime pelt for one four-a-penny board nail!'

'S'truth!'

'Can you credit it? 'Course, you were among the Creeks and the Seminolee.'

'Well, we weren't doing much trading. 'Cept for my wife.'

'Your what?.

And on their way back to the Chun Qua Factory, Alan regaled Chiswick with the tale of impregnating the Cherokee slave-girl Rabbit and being forced to purchase her from her owner for a dragoon pistol, a cartouche pouch, a shirt and a pair of deer hides.

'And there you are, paying court to my sister Caroline, and you a married man,' Burgess japed. 'I should write and warn her how fickle your enthusiasms are!'

Chapter 4

Their supper that evening at the factory was another of those marvels to a palate ruined by ship's rations. Or by the bland-ness of English cooking, Alan thought, except in the rarest instances. Oh, there was lots of rice, but, like the supper at Sir Hugo's bungalow in Calcutta, it seemed that hundreds of dishes made their appearances as removes. Some fiery hot, some crunchy and only mildly spiced, some almost recognizable and some that could only be identified by comparing them to puppy-spew, or one of William Pitt's hairballs. The lone Chinese table-servant announced the name of each dish, with Wythy translating-pork, chicken, beef, lobster bits, shrimp, oil-fried omelets and such. Lewrie decided they could call 'em devil's turds, 'long as they kept them coming.

Wythy alone of their company ate with chopsticks in the native manner, and put away as much as two of them together with a frantic neatness. Not a wasted motion when he was at table.

'Ah!' Wythy said at last when the final dish, and the gigantic bowl of rice, had been removed. 'Perfection from the soup to the nuts!'

'Speaking of soup, Mister Wythy,' Alan asked, attention fixed on the port decanter that the servant placed by Twigg's elbow. 'Do these Chinese really eat soups made out of bird's nests and shark fins?'

'Oh, aye they do. Daft on 'em, they are,' Wythy rumbled with a laugh. 'Bird's nests… well, that's the mandarin's style. Eat such exotic shite such's their Emperor's court can obtain. Like the old Romans. Lark's tongues, mouse cheeks an' such.'

'To show off how wealthy they are,' Twigg commented.

'The rarer the victuals, the better show they put on for their guests, to flaunt their wealth.'

'An' ye'll have noted, no doubt, how most o' the really nabob-rich Chinese traders'r fatter'n Falstaff,' Wythy added.

Alan hadn't noted any such thing, but he gave the comment a sage nod of agreement. Wythy had fed himself into such a good mood, and Alan wanted nothing to upset him. Wythy hadn't told him where the safer brothels were yet.

'Peasants in the countryside are one crop away from famine,' Twigg said. 'And it's short commons for most of 'em. Just take a look at the people who live on all those sampans we passed on the way up-river for comparison. Poor as Irish crofters, and about as starved, most of the time. It's a virtue to the Chinese to get rich, and set a table such as a duke could afford back home.'

'Er… about the shark fins, though,' Burgess pressed. 'Does this soup really restore an old man's vigor?'

'Well, I'm nowhere near needin' restoration yet, sir,' Wythy boomed with amusement like a thumped barrel, 'but there's more wonders in this world'n ye could shake a stick at. I've heard tell it works. Mind ye, that was from Chun Qua himself. Who knows? Where'd ye hear o' shark fin soup?'

'Oh, there was a French mate on the customs dock this afternoon,' Alan replied, finally getting his hands on the port and pouring himself a full bumper. 'They were unloading bales of the damned things. Strung together like fish on twine. Must have had thousands, and getting three or four livres apiece for 'em, too, he told us.'

'A French ship,' Twigg commented, raising his eyebrows to Alan to start the decanter leftward down the table to his empty glass.

'Aye, sir.'

'And what else did they land on the docks?' Twigg inquired.

'Furs, sir,' Burgess supplied. ' Nootka Sound pelts. Quite a lot of 'em. Uhm… bird's nests. All sorts of stuff. Right, Alan?'

'Well, most of it was crated or bundled. I did see the furs, and the shark fins, though,' Alan allowed. 'I'd have to take your word on the bird's nests, Burge. That, and the ginseng.'

'Ginseng!' Twigg barked, and set the decanter down on the table with a loud thump. 'Ginseng, d'you say, sir?'

'Oh, yes.' Burgess bubbled on. 'Their mate… what was his name, Mon-something… no matter. Said they had ginseng aboard. I believe he said it's about as good as shark fins to aid old men in passion. Our old slaves back home in North Carolina said…'

'Mister Wythy,' Twigg interrupted, almost shushing Chiswick to silence, 'correct me if I err, but ginseng is