A man in breeches and shirt-sleeves glanced at them curiously, his eyes following every move of the coolies. Quinlan nodded to him and crossed the deck to the precarious planks of the brow down to the jetty.
Kydd's mind whirled at the impact on his senses — an unmistakable sickly stench from the vegetable plots, the charcoal smell of cooking fires and the sheer rich stink of land after months at sea. The flank of the central spine of the island was one long alley with shanty shops on both sides, each with its blank-faced proprietor in white gown, shaved head and slender pigtail to the waist. There was every kind of knick-knack and curio.
'Keep together,' Quinlan muttered. He seemed to have directions, and strode forward purposefully. There were occasional European sailors, but they were of another world, the merchant marine, and were in loose, serviceable sea-clothes that were as different from their own smart man-o'-war's rig as they were from the Chinese. Some even wore the baggy petticoat breeches of a previous age.
At the natural boundary of a stream they turned right and soon were in much more congenial surroundings: notwithstanding the bamboo walls and roof it was unmistakably a tavern. In fact, there were several — and more! They wasted no time and crowded into the first. The Cantonese pot-boy seemed to understand their needs and scurried away. Before they had chosen their rattan table and settled into the odd straight-backed chairs he was back, whisking foaming tankards before them.
'Well, stap me!' Stirk marvelled. 'Died 'n' gone t' heaven!' The pot-boy remained, standing quietly. His eyes were fathomless black buttons.
'Er, yair — anyone got some loot?'
Quinlan held up a Spanish silver dollar. 'This makee two rounds, you sawy, John?' he said, making a twirling motion with his finger. The man glanced back, with considerable dignity, thought Kydd. Apparently the answer was an affirmative for he nodded and left soundlessly.
It was nectar, the first beer ashore. The taste was more watery than their English palates would have preferred, but it was fresh and went down very rapidly.
'Hey, John! Next round - chop, chop!'
As swifdy as the first, another round was before them, and they raised their tankards. 'T' the poor bastards back aboard, an' workin' their hearts out.'
Kydd raised his tankard, thinking of Renzi. He didn't notice the men looming behind until one spoke. 'An' what are King's men doin' here, c'n I ask?' The speaker was bulky, unshaven, and there were several others with him.
'Yes, yer might ask, mate,' Stirk said mildly.
'Well?'
'Well, cully, we're not the press-gang — but we could make an exception in your case,' he said, with a chuckle.
'Don' you chouse us, matey — we tips the Hoppo an' he'll settle yer soon enough.' He folded his arms. 'Whampoa's fer merchantmen only — what're yez doing here?' The man's hectoring tone annoyed Kydd, who got to his feet.
Stirk interrupted him. 'We're here on a mishun,' he told the merchant sailor softly.
'A wot?' he replied mockingly. Kydd stiffened.
The man's lips curled in a derisive sneer. 'We don' hold with no pretty boys in sailor suits here — it's men only.'
Kydd's fist slammed out. The man fell back, roaring. Instantly, everyone was on their feet, defensively grouped behind Kydd.
The man felt his bloody nose. Snarling, he drew his knife. Kydd's heart thudded, but he was elbowed aside by Stirk, whose own blade was across his palm, held loosely forward.
'Seen 'is kind afore, mate - can't take a joke.' Stirk glanced behind, quickly. 'About time we weren't here, mates. Let's head back.'
Pitching his voice towards Kydd as they withdrew from the tavern the large man shouted, 'You watch yer back ashore, mate. You 'n' me got somethin't' settle.'
Stirk slid his knife back, and chuckled grimly. 'Merchant jacks — got me sympathy, always short-handed an' that, but pickin' a man-o'-war's man, they'd 'ave t' be pixy-led!'
Kydd winked at Stirk. 'Insultin' the King's uniform -couldn't help m'self.'
The last stage to Canton was through perfectly flat rice-fields that seemed to stretch away for ever into the immense unknown of Asia, an alien vastness that made Kydd shiver. Abruptly the last bend straightened and within sight of the city walls the northern bank opened up, with wide buildings fronting the river. In front of each was a flag-pole with a national flag firmly in place.
The largest and most central had the union flag of Great Britain, and they headed towards it. Respectfully, Kydd handed the envoy up the wooden steps to the small group at the top.
The sailors waited in the cutter until the formalities were complete. The envoy's small party moved off, and a figure appeared at the edge of the wharf. 'Hey, you lot, up here, chop, chop!'
The seamen looked at each other, shrugged and clambered up. The young man at the top was in white silk breeches and loose shirt, and was coatless. He surveyed the group in surprise, their trim appearance apparently a novelty. 'So, Lord Elmhurst has given instructions that you shall be the, er, guests of John Company while he is in Canton.' There was a noticeable hesitation. 'And it seems I shall be answerable for your conduct while he is here.'