We pass hundreds of junks, the quaintest ships afloat in the world, with their sides decorated with brilliant blue and red frescoes, and sails of bamboo matting; the all-seeing black and white eye is in the bow of the boat, for no Chinese junk would sail without this occult protection.
Lost to us are the beauties of the palm and flower-covered Bund, the pride of Shanghai (on this first occasion), for we land in a drenching rain, and seek shelter in a dirty jinrikisha lined with green and red oilskin, and drawn by a feeble coolie—and this began the first of our disadvantageous comparisons between China and Japan. By all means let everyone visit China first, with its dirty mud villages, devoid ever of picturesqueness, its swarming, grasping, sullen people, and leave Japan—dear, clean, little Japan, with its picturesque streets, and charming, willing little fairies to the last. From that moment of landing I took a repugnance to China, and the more I saw of it the more the dislike grew.
An hour after reaching Shanghai, we were told of a steamer leaving for Tientsin immediately—a cargo boat, it was true, but the captain was willing to take us. The last bale of goods was being lowered into the hold, the Blue Peter flying at her masthead; a hasty decision being necessary without more reflection, and, being most anxious to push on to Peking, we embarked on board.
The Chïng Ping is a Chinese collier of 500 tons, trading between the coast ports, and with a single cabin for a chance passenger. A glance was sufficient to show us the fate in store for us for the next few days, but it was then too late. As we scudded out into the Yellow Sea, in a storm of wind and rain we began to suffer. The horrors of that long night are yet like a bad dream. We heard bell after bell strike, and thought that dawn would never break, for the Chïng Ping rolled to desperation, shipping heavy seas, whilst the wind blew like a hurricane through the "alloway" under which was our cabin, blowing showers of spray in at the door, while on closing it we were suffocated. We were unable to move, for it was impossible to stand, and in total darkness, for the matches had early disappeared amid the chaos of articles on the floor, which we helplessly heard rolling about and bounding against the walls. Nor was this the worst; for the rain and spray leaked through the woodwork of the cabin, and soon our berths and clothes were saturated, and deadly sick, with no dry place in which to place our heads, we lay drenched through the weary hours of that dreadful night.
It was a sorry sight, a scene of wreckage and despair, that good Captain Crowlie looked in upon the next morning, when we begged to be put ashore anywhere, at any cost, rather than spend such another night on board. He was so kind to us, taking us up and establishing us in his own cabin on the hurricane deck, where we passed the remainder of the voyage.
For the past few days we had been crossing the stormy Gulf of Pechele, with the now grey, now purple, coast-line of the great province of Chihli to port. It is late on the fourth afternoon that we are on the bridge with the captain, all anxiety to know whether we shall cross the bar at the mouth of the Peiho to-night, for he fears that we are just two hours too late to catch the flood tide.
The entrance to the Peiho is most extraordinary; for there is no sign of land, no banks visible to indicate that it is a river, but only the bulbous buoy of the lighter opposite the bar, rising above the horizon, growing clearer every minute. It is determined to make a desperate effort, and everybody is on the alert; officers at their various posts, the engineer putting on all steam, the steering-gear connected to the upper bridge, whilst the leadsman, a quaint Chinese figure perched out on an overhanging gangway, is set to work. At each call the water gets shallower, and decreases at every throw from fifteen feet to thirteen feet down to nine, and then the flat bottom of the Chïng Ping ensconces itself comfortably on the bed of mud, and the fatal "Let go anchor" sounds from the bridge. We stay there for the night, a sudden silence falling on the ship in the silver moonlight, save for the convulsive sobbing of the engines, giving forth their last oppression of steam. Alas! we shall not sleep in Tientsin to-night.
At 2 o'clock in the morning the commotion, as we get under weigh, begins afresh, and no sleep is possible after that, for there is the frantic whirring of the steering-gear just outside the cabin, as the sharp commands from the bridge, make the wheel race from port to starboard. We stop opposite the Taku Custom House, and whistle ever louder and more angrily for the sleeping officer, who eventually comes reluctantly on board. And then in the moonlight we glide by the crumbling banks, past mud villages, silent as the grave, lying in deep shadows, until morning glimmers in the purple red of the sky, and we pay our morning orisons to the rising sun, in its glory, over the well-cultivated, intensely flat plains, and the cracked mud banks of the great Peiho.
The navigation of this river is the most wonderful series of nautical evolutions. The steamers are especially built with flat bottoms for the service, and must not draw more than ten feet of water. It is without exception the most exasperating bit of navigation, calling forth the anathemas alike of captain and passengers. There is first of all the bar, where at high water there is often only from ten to eleven feet. Here it is possible to wait for several days before there is enough water for a steamer to cross, and in most cases the cargo has to be taken out to lighten the ship on one side, and replaced on the other, or again sometimes it may be too rough for the lighters to come alongside. Then commence the windings, so sharp that steam is shut off, whilst the bows of the ship are across the stream, and the stern is all but on the bank, the dangers of going aground being considerably increased by the shallowness of the water. To give an idea of the serpentine course of the river—a steamer which we passed in a bend on the port side, two hundred yards further on will be to starboard. The effect produced by this is, that the large sails of the sampans are a succession of ships sailing inland, in contrary directions.
We pass the mud forts of Taku, where the great battle of 1860 took place, when the allied forces were on their march to Peking. The Chinese idea of fortifications, as a rule, consists largely of walls of mud with a hard battened surface, and these forts are intended for the protection of the Peiho, but really their best one rests in the bar at its mouth. There is the embankment yonder of China's only railway. It runs from Taku to Tientsin. Fancy a country of four million square miles, with a population of as many millions as there are days in the year, with but one single railway of a few miles! Yet such is the case; China is still in the shadow of the dark ages.