River of Smoke

by Amitav Ghosh

  There was a dazed silence, which helped the stewards to serve another course: even though Bahram’s attention had been distracted by Mr Slade’s thunderous peroration, he did not fail to recognize that the dish that had now appeared on the table was the great glory of Macahnese cuisine – Galinha Africana – grilled chicken, napped with a coconut sauce that was redolent of the spices of Mozambique.

  No one else paid any attention to the chicken. From the other end of the table, Mr Lindsay directed a frown at Mr Slade. ‘You must consider yourself lucky, John, that you were born in England. In some countries a man might well lose his head for taking such a tone with his leaders.’

  ‘Believe me, sir,’ said the Thunderer, ‘I know very well the value of my freedoms. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to see them conferred upon the uncountable millions who groan under the yoke of tyranny – most notably the wretches who suffer the rule of the Manchu despot.’

  ‘But Mr Slade!’ It was the voice of Charles King. ‘If freedom is merely a stick for you to beat others with, then surely the word has lost all meaning? You have blamed Lord Palmerston, you have blamed Captain Elliott, you have blamed the Emperor of China – yet you have not once taken the name of the commodity that has brought us to the present impasse: opium.’

  Slade’s heavy jowls quivered thunderously as he turned to face his interlocutor. ‘No, Mr King,’ he said. ‘I have not mentioned opium, nor indeed have I spoken of any of your other hobby horses. And nor will I until your Celestial friends candidly admit that it is they who are the prime movers in this trade. In supplying them with such goods as they demand we are merely obeying the laws of Free Trade …’

  ‘And the laws of conscience, Mr Slade?’ said Charles King. ‘What of them?’

  ‘Do you imagine, Mr King, that freedom of conscience could exist in the absence of the freedom of trade?’

  Before Charles King could respond Jardine broke in. ‘But all the same, Slade, you’re coming it a bit strong, aren’t you? I cannot see that it will serve any purpose to address the Foreign Secretary so harshly. And as for Captain Elliott he is merely a functionary – we should not ascribe to him greater consequence than is his due.’

  Slade opened his mouth to respond, but was distracted by the entry of the dessert, which was a rich and creamy ‘sawdust pudding’ – serradura, topped with a crisp layer of toasted crumbs.

  Mr. Lindsay was quick to seize this opportunity and struck his knife upon his glass.

  ‘Gentlemen, in a minute we will drink to the Queen. But before that I have some good news to share with you. As you know, my term as President of the Chamber runs out in a few months. It is of course the custom for the outgoing President to name a successor. I am happy to announce that our next incumbent will be someone who will ensure that Mr Jardine will remain with us in spirit even after his departure. For he is none other than Mr Jardine’s dearest friend: Mr Wetmore.’

  Many hands began to clap and Mr Wetmore rose to his feet in acknowledgement.

  ‘I am moved, deeply moved, to be trusted with the responsibilities of leadership at a time like this.’ There was a catch in his voice and he paused to clear it. ‘It is some consolation, if I may say so, for the loss of Mr Jardine.’

  This too was answered with a burst of clapping. Even as he was joining in the applause, Bahram noticed that his two neighbours were exchanging smiles and glances that seemed to say: ‘Did I not tell you so?’

  Under cover of the noise Dent leant close to Bahram’s ear: ‘You see, Barry, how things are disposed of amongst us?’

  Bahram decided to answer cautiously. ‘Pray, Lancelot, what is your meaning?’

  Dent’s voice, although low, became very intense: ‘We are at a critical juncture, Barry, and I do not think we have the leadership we need.’

  He cut himself short as Mr Lindsay rose to his feet, glass in hand. ‘Gentlemen, the Queen …’

  After the toasts had been drunk Mr Lindsay declared that the evening was not over yet, far from it. At a signal from him the sliding doors that connected the dining room to the reception room were thrown open: inside were three fiddlers, setting up their music stands. They struck up a waltz and Mr Lindsay gestured to his guests to rise. ‘Come, gentlemen, this would scarcely be a Canton evening if it did not end with some dancing. I am sure Mr Jardine and Mr Wetmore will lead the way, as they have so often in the past.’

  Now, as the guests began to pair off around the table, Bahram realized that he would have to choose between Mr Slade and Mr Dent. He turned hurriedly to his right: ‘Shall we dance, Lancelot?’

  ‘Why certainly, Barry,’ said Dent. ‘But can I have a minute of your time before that?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Linking his arm with Bahram’s, Dent led him out to the wide balcony that adjoined the dining room. ‘You must know, Barry,’ he said in a low voice, ‘that we are facing a crisis of unprecedented magnitude. It should come as no surprise that the Grand Manchu has decided to demonstrate his omnipotence by prohibiting the entry of opium into this country. It is in the nature of tyranny for tyrants to be seized by fancies, and it is clear that this one will stop at nothing to enforce his whim: arrests, raids, executions – the monster is willing to use every instrument of oppression that is available to him. None of this is perhaps surprising in a heathen despot – but I am sorry to say that there are some in our community here who would gladly march to the tyrant’s tune.’

  ‘Are you referring to Charles King?’ said Bahram.

  ‘Yes,’ said Dent. ‘My fear is that in Mr Jardine’s absence he will attempt to seize control of the Committee. Fortunately he has little support and Mr Jardine’s adherents will not allow them to prevail. Yet, the means by which Mr Jardine and his people propose to solve our problems are not much different: they speak of Free Trade and yet their intention is to invite the armed intervention of none other than Her Majesty’s government. To me this is not merely a contradiction of the principles of Free Trade, but a mockery of them: it is my belief that whenever governments attempt to sway the Invisible Hand, whenever they attempt to bend the flow of trade to their will, then must free men fear for their liberties – for that is when we know that we are in the presence of a power that seeks to make children of us, a force that seeks to usurp the sovereign will that God has bestowed equally on all of us. A pox on both their houses I say.’

  Bahram’s instinctive suspicion of abstractions was now aroused. ‘But Lancelot, what would you do about the present situation? Are you having any definite plan?’

  ‘My plan,’ said Dent, ‘is to trust in the Almighty and leave the rest to the laws of Nature. It will not be long before mankind’s natural cupidity reasserts itself. I hold this to be Man’s most powerful and most noble instinct: nothing can withstand it. It is only a matter of time before it overwhelms the proud ambitions of those who seek to govern from on high.’

  Bahram began to fidget with the hem of his angarkha. ‘But Lancelot … see, I am an ordinary man of business; can you please explain what you are trying to say in a simple way?’

  ‘All right,’ said Dent. ‘Let me put it like this. Do you think the demand for opium in China has abated merely because of an edict from Peking?’

  ‘No,’ said Bahram. ‘That I doubt.’

  ‘And you are right to doubt it, for I assure you it has not. The absence of food does not make a man forsake hunger – it only makes him hungrier. The same is true of opium. I am told that the price being offered for a chest of opium in the city is now in the region of three thousand dollars – five times what it was a year ago.’

  ‘Is it really?’

  ‘Yes. Can you imagine what that means, Barry? The cumshaws that every mandarin, guard and bannerman received a year ago are now also potentially many times higher.’

  ‘That is true,’ said Bahram. ‘You have a point.’

  ‘How long before the mandarins see reason? If the Emperor’s edicts and prohibitions are not rescinded, what is to hold them
back from fomenting rebellion? If he does not disavow his whim, what is to prevent lesser men from rising up against the power-maddened Manchu, who is not even of their own race? How long can it be before they see where their own interests lie?’

  ‘But that is the problem, Lancelot,’ said Bahram. ‘Time. Let me be frank with you. I have a shipful of opium anchored off Hong Kong and I need to dispose of it quickly. I do not have much time.’

  ‘Oh I understand very well,’ said Dent with a smile. ‘Believe me I am in exactly the same position – even more so because I have more than one shipload to dispose of. But ask yourself this: what is the alternative? If the Olyphants have their way then we will lose our cargoes in their entirety; if Jardine and his people win out what will it profit us, you and me? It will be a year, or perhaps two, before an expeditionary force arrives. Do you think the investors who have entrusted us with their capital will wait quietly while an English fleet sails halfway around the world?’

  ‘No, it is true; they would not wait that long,’ said Bahram. ‘But tell me, Lancelot, what is your solution? What would you do about this problem?’

  ‘It’s quite simple,’ said Dent. ‘You and I need to be able to dispose of our opium at our convenience and it is essential that the Chamber does nothing to stand in our way. It is vital that we do not allow it to become a shadow government seeking to usurp our individual freedoms. But to make sure of this I will need your help. In the months to come we will face tremendous pressure. Governments on both sides of the world will attempt to bend us to their will. At this time, above all, it is essential that we prepare to resist – and unless we stay together we will all be swept aside.’ He placed his hand on Bahram’s arm. ‘Tell me, Barry – can I count on your support?’

  Bahram dropped his eyes: he could not see himself aligning either with Jardine or with the representatives of Olyphant & Co. – yet there was something about Dent that led him to doubt that he would be able to carry the majority of his peers with him.

  ‘Tell me, Lancelot: do you think you are having as much support as will be required?’

  Dent was silent for a moment. ‘I own I would be more confident if Benjamin Burnham were here already. I could certainly count on him and I do believe that with his help and yours I would be able to sway the Committee.’

  ‘Mr Burnham of Calcutta?’ said Bahram. ‘Is he also on the Committee?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dent. ‘As you know, it is the custom to include one representative from the Calcutta agency houses. I was able to ensure that the seat was kept for Benjamin: he and I understand each other very well. He is on his way to Canton now and once he is here, I will feel far more confident.’ He paused to clear his throat. ‘But of course we will still need you, Barry – and you are, after all, an old ally of Dent and Company.’

  Bahram decided it was far too early to show his hand. ‘I certainly hold your company in the highest esteem,’ he said in a non-committal way. ‘But as for these other matters I will have to do some thinking.’

  There was a break in the music now, which provided Bahram with an opportunity to end the conversation. Cocking his head towards the reception room he said: ‘Ah, waltz is over! Now polka is starting. Shall we go in?’

  If Dent was put out by the abrupt change of subject he did not show it. ‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘Come. Let us go in.’

  As they stepped inside, Bahram spotted a large, hulking figure leaning negligently against the sliding doors of the reception room with a tankard of beer clutched in one hand.

  ‘Why, it is Mr Innes,’ said Dent.

  ‘Was he invited? I did not see him earlier.’

  ‘I doubt that Mr Innes would be stopped by the lack of an invitation,’ said Dent with a laugh. ‘He will brook no hindrance from anyone but the Almighty Himself.’

  Bahram had only a nodding acquaintance with Innes but he knew him well by repute: although well-born he was a wild, wilful character, who did exactly as he pleased. He was a brawler, forever getting into fights, and in Bombay no respectable merchant would deal with him for he was regarded as an inveterate troublemaker. As a result he was forced to obtain his consignments of opium from petty dalals – and thieves and dacoits too, for all that anyone knew.

  He was surprised now, to hear Dent speaking of Innes with approbation.

  ‘It is men like Innes who will resolve our present difficulties,’ Dent said. ‘These are the free spirits who will thwart the designs of tyrants. If there is anyone who can be considered a crusader in the cause of Free Trade it is he.’

  ‘What do you mean, Lancelot?’

  Dent’s eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘Are you perhaps unaware, Barry, that Innes is the only man who is still transporting cargoes of opium into Canton? He believes it to be God’s will, so he continues to bring the chests upriver in his own cutters, defying the Emperor’s ban. It wouldn’t be possible of course if he did not have local allies – everyone is paid off on the way, the customs men, the mandarins, everyone. He has had no trouble so far – it is proof that the natural cupidity which is the foundation of human freedom will always prevail against the whims of tyrants.’

  Dent leant closer to Bahram’s ear. ‘I will tell you this in confidence Barry: Innes has disposed of several dozen cases for me in the last few weeks. I would be glad to speak to him on your behalf.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Bahram quickly. It made him cringe to think of what would be said of him in Bombay if it ever came to be known that he was dealing with a man like Innes. ‘Please do not trouble yourself, Lancelot. That will not be necessary.’

  To Bahram’s alarm, Innes seemed to have guessed that he was being talked about for he turned around suddenly, with a scowl on his face. All of a sudden Bahram was seized by the notion that Innes would ask him to dance. This so panicked him that he grabbed Dent’s hand: ‘Come, Lancelot,’ he said. ‘It is time to dance.’

  Nine

  Markwick’s Hotel, November 21

  My dear, dear Begum of Pugglabad, Good news! At last I am able to report some progress in the matter of your camellia. It is not a great step, but it is a step nonetheless – and I am hopeful, not just in regard to your painting but to that other quest, even closer to my heart …!

  But I will come to that later: suffice it to say that none of this would have come about if I had not done something I should have done ages ago: I have finally summoned the courage to visit the most celebrated artist in Canton: Mr Guan Ch’iao-chang.

  And now that I have done it, I positively berate myself for not having gone earlier: how could I have been such a gudda? But I must not be too hard on myself for the fault is not mine alone: the blame goes, in large part, to my Uncle.

  You will have heard from Mr Penrose that Mr Chinnery holds the painters of Canton in utter scorn and positively bridles if they are spoken of as Artists. He regards them as the merest craftsmen, no better than the potters and tinkers who set up shop by the roadside. And in this he is not alone: this is the opinion also of Chinese connoisseurs; they too are dismissive of the Canton style of painting which is indeed utterly different from the manner that commands admiration in China. Nor are the painters of Canton of the same ilk as the great Chinese artists of old: they are not from famously cultivated families and they are neither great scholars nor high-ranking officials nor illuminati. They are the kind of people whose forebears were malis and peasants and khidmatgars and labourers in workshops – humble, strong and virile. Mr Karabedian has made a study of the subject, for some of the craftsmen he buys watches from are of the same stock. He says that the Canton studios grew out of – would you believe it? – porcelain kilns, the very ones that made China-ware famous around the world! It was the practice for fanquis to send patterns and pictures to Chinese porcelain-makers; these were then used to decorate the pottery that was made here for European markets (is it not the most delightful absurdity to think of all those hausfraus rushing out to buy ‘China’ thinking it to be marvellously foreign when all the while the designs wer
e provided by their own countrymen?).

  These workmen became expert at creating images that appealed to Occidentals and in time they turned their hands to other things: they made paintings on snuff-boxes and trays and tiles and sheets of glass; they copied portraits from lockets and amulets and made little miniatures – and these trifles so delighted the sailors and sea-captains who visited Canton that they brought them their favourite pictures to copy: miniatures of their wives and children, as well as landscapes and portraits – some brought etchings of famous Euopean paintings and these too were reproduced with extraordinary skill. Mr Karabedian says that some Canton painters have gained so intimate a familiarity with the Masters of Europe that it is no great matter for them to invent Tiepolos and Tintorettos that have never before seen the light of day – and in so perfect a manner that if the artists themselves were to behold these paintings they would think them to be their own! Many such paintings have already been taken to Europe and sold says Mr Karabedian; he is even willing to wager that a day will come when many a canvas thought to have been painted in Venice or Rome will be found to have been made in China! Yet Canton painters are without honour in their own country for their work does not accord at all with Chinese High Taste.

  You can imagine, dear Puggly, the effect these revelations had on me! I understood at once why Mr Chinnery held these artists in such low regard: it is because Canton’s studios produce a bastard art – a thing no more likely to be loved by its sire than is its human avatar (and who could know this better than I?).

  You will understand why a sense of kinship with these artists began to germinate within me: I felt myself to be utterly in sympathy with them – and this bond was greatly strengthened by the knowledge that some of them had even learnt from the same teacher as I: none other than Mr Chinnery himself! Yes, my dear Puggly, in light of what I have said about my Uncle’s opinion of these painters it may amaze you to learn that a good number of them have served as apprentices in the Chinnery atelier. But in Mr Chinnery’s eyes this earns them no more merit than is gained by the paintbrushes that pass through his hands – for these apprentices serve merely as instruments (just as I and my brother once did) filling in here a patch of paint and there a lick of colour: not for a moment could he imagine them to be partaking of that feast to which he gives the name ‘Art’.