Then there were the green teas: Gunpowder and Pearl Tea, and Yu Tsien, which were the choicest spring pickings, and in descending order, Hyson skin, and Twankay, which was mostly used to adulterate batches of the better pickings.
"Yes, I've always found the younger the bud, the more fun to pick as well, sir," Alan grinned, unable to contain himself as the lecture ran on, and on, and on.
"More like deflowerin', Mister Lewrie?" Wythy rasped. "Ye'd be the best judge o' that, I'm sure. Ye mind my warnin' about the local lasses, both o' ye? 'Twas Macao'r nothin'. No women in the factories, ye know."
"Yet there are women in Hog Lane, sir, for the sailors?" Alan inquired. "Do the Chinese mean no foreign women, or no women at all?"
"Aye, fer a whiff o' silver, ye may find custom, though I warn ye both, they're sure to be poxed so bad even the surgeon's mercury cure'd only slow it down," Wythy allowed.
"But something more discreet… uhm, more select for senior traders, sir?" Alan pressed softly, and was pleased that Wythy gave him a shrug and a sly wink. So the man's not a total lout, he thought!
"A tai pan, head of a trading house, well, there are places…" Wythy grunted. "Not at this time of day. The Chinee is a hard-workin' bugger. The day's fer making profit. If the humor's on ye so devilish hard, Mister Lewrie, I'll give ye the fairest wind to steer y'er course by, but 'pon y'er head be it, mind."
"Aye, sir," Alan agreed. "I'd expect nothing less."
"Well, be off with ye. I've work to do. Sup here with us at seven o' the evening. In the meantime, enjoy the sights. Take a peek about. Go visiting," Wythy enjoined, winking once more and jerking his head over his shoulder to indicate the French hong next door. "I spotted some nice bargains along China Street."
They finished their ales and went outside into the heat of the day. After a couple of cold ones, it didn't seem that bad any longer, and there was a decent breeze to keep the hordes of flies at bay and cool the air. At least it wasn't Calcutta, or the Equator.
"I despair o' your immortal soul, Mister Lewrie," McTaggart sighed with a long-put-upon air. "Wenching. Is that all ya hae on your mind, sir?"
"If left to my own devices, yes," Alan confessed willingly.
"You're as much a heathen as een o' these yellow fellas! A bluidy… pagan!" McTaggart spat. "I doan know why I abide your comp'ny!"
"Church of England, actually, not pagan," Alan corrected.
"Same bluidy thing," McTaggart sighed.
They shopped in China Street, running into Burgess Chiswick, who was out browzing in company with his native orderly Nandu, both wearing civilian clothes. Burgess was loaded down with packages-or at least his orderly was.
"The most unbelievable things, Alan!" Burgess enthused. "Laces as good as any from Flanders or Holland, and damn-all cheap, too. A whole tablecloth for the price of a man's shirt, can you credit it?"
"Hollo, what's this? In need of fanning, Burge?" Alan teased.
"For mother. And for Caroline. Even one for Mammy."
"Your grand-mither?" McTaggart inquired, somewhat confused.
"Family slave. Been with us for years," Burge informed him off-handedly. "Couldn't bear to sell her off at Charleston, so she crossed to England with us. Practically raised me. Those smaller bundles are silk shawls for all. Can't go to a drum or dance without a fancy shawl and a Chinese fan, now can they?"
"Slavery." McTaggart shivered, and wandered off on his own.
"What the devil did he mean by that?" Chiswick huffed. "By God, if he's slurring my family because we…"
"No reason to take offense, Burge," Alan said, grinning. "Between my morals, and you a slave-owning Carolinian, he's having a hellish hard day of it."
"The devil take him, then, him and his blue-stocking airs."
"My dear Burgess, the devil wouldn't dare!" Alan drawled.
After plunging into the market, Alan was entranced all over again, just as he had been in Calcutta. There was so much to see, so many new aromas to savor, so many goods in so many shops that would have gathered mobs of oglers back in London, though most of them could never afford most of it, as novel as any raree-show on earth. And once more, he was glad he'd sailed halfway round the world to see it, hard as the sailing was between ports. This experience was something he'd never forget.
As mementoes, he bought a fiery-red silk dressing gown for himself, all figured with dragons in green and iridescent blue that leaped off the cloth. A small carved ivory junk. Some marble models of temple dogs for his mantel, wherever that would be once he was home. And, with mention of the lovely and gentle Caroline Chiswick, he purchased a pair of earrings and a necklace made of jade, ivory and silver beads, to go home to her on the first Indiaman clearing port for England.
They loaded Nandu down like a pack-pony and sent him trotting off to the Chun Qua Factory, while they took a stand-up repast of hot soup and noodles from an open-air vendor, and strolled the square. Most particularly that part of the square behind the French Factory.
"Now what the devil…?" Alan mused aloud as they saw some of the items being carted up to the factory from the docks and customs house on the quay. "Can you tell me what these are, sir?"
Alan had inquired of a man dressed as a European seaman.
"M'seur?" the man replied, turning to face them.
"Park vous I'Anglais, m'seur? Can you tell me…"
"Ah, mais out. Zose, m'seur? Ze shark feens," the man said.
"Well, now I've heard just about everything," Burgess griped.
"Whatever are they for?"
"Pour ze potage, m'seur," the sailor explained. "Pardon, j'sui Marcel Monnot. Notre ship La Malouine. Et vous?" After they had introduced themselves, Monnot went on. "Ze shark feen soup, 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."