by Amitav Ghosh
‘But that is exactly the problem, Wetmore,’ said Mr Burnham. ‘If Commissioner Lin is what I believe him to be, a monster or madman, there is nothing to be gained from dealing with him, is there?’
Before Mr Wetmore could speak, Mr Slade broke in: ‘Here I must beg to differ with you, Burnham. In my view, the High Commissioner is neither a monster nor a madman, but merely a mandarin of exceptional craftiness. His intention is to intimidate us with threats and braggadocio, so that he may boast of his exploits to the Emperor and earn himself a brighter button for his hat. For myself, I do not credit any of it – neither the menaces of the Commissioner nor the professions of terror on the part of our friends of the Co-Hong. It is obvious to me that the Co-Hong is thoroughly in league with the High Commissioner – they are clearly enacting this little pantomime together. The Hongists have assumed these masks of terror in the hope of getting us to part with our goods at no cost to themselves: that is all it is – a charade like those we are treated to every time we cross the Square. It is the usual Celestial humbug and we cannot be taken in.’
‘But what do you propose we do, Mr Slade?’ said Bahram. ‘What are your suggestions?’
‘What I propose,’ said Slade, ‘is that we stand fast and show that we are not to be budged. Once they understand this, Howqua and Mowqua will sort out the matter soon enough. They will dole out a few cumshaws and grease a few palms and that will be the end of it. Their heads will remain on their shoulders and we shall still be in possession of our goods. If we show signs of softness we will all lose: this above all is a moment when we must cleave to our principles.’
‘Principles?’ retorted Mr King in astonishment. ‘I fail to see what principle can underlie the smuggling of opium.’
‘Well then, you have chosen to blind yourself, sir!’ Mr Burnham’s fist landed loudly on the table. ‘Is freedom not a principle as well as a right? Is there no principle at stake when free men claim the liberty to conduct their affairs without fear of tyrants and despots?’
‘By that token, sir,’ said Mr King, ‘any murderer could claim that he is but exercising his natural rights. If the charter of your liberties entails death and despair for untold multitudes, then it is nothing but a licence for slaughter.’
Mr King and Mr Burnham were both on their feet now, staring at each other across the table.
Mr Wetmore thumped the table again. ‘Please, gentlemen! May I remind you that this is a matter of the utmost urgency? We do not have the leisure to conduct debates on abstract principles. The time at our disposal is so short that to speed matters along, Mr King and I have taken the liberty of drafting a reply to the Commissioner’s edict, on behalf of all of us.’
‘Have you indeed?’ said Dent with a quizzical smile. ‘Well, you have certainly been busy, Wetmore! And what does your letter say?’
‘In essence, Mr Dent, it seeks to assure the High Commissioner that we are willing to accede to his terms, but with certain reservations.’
‘Does it now?’ said Dent, smiling thinly. ‘So are we to understand, Mr Wetmore, that you and your little friend Charlie have taken it upon yourselves to write a letter on our behalf but without consulting us? A letter that pledges to end a trade that has existed since before any of us were born? A trade that has conferred enormous wealth upon yourself and your friends, not least Mr Jardine?’
The reference to Jardine seemed to rattle Mr Wetmore, and his voice grew a little shaky. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘our letter explains, of course, that there was, in the past, some ambiguity in regard to the Chinese government’s position on the opium trade. At one time it was widely believed that the government might even legalize the trade. But whatever doubts may have existed in the past have certainly been removed by the Commissioner’s deeds and words. There is no reason now to hesitate in providing the pledge that he demands.’
‘Oh really?’ said Dent with silky smoothness. ‘And what of the ships that are already anchored around Hong Kong and the other outer harbours? Are we to meekly empty their holds and send the contents to the Commissioner?’
‘Not at all,’ said Wetmore. ‘Our letter explains that while the ships might belong to us, their cargoes do not. They are in effect the property of our investors, in Bombay, Calcutta and London. To surrender the cargoes is impossible: what we will do instead is send the ships back to India.’
For Bahram, this was the prospect most to be feared. ‘Send our cargoes back to India?’ he cried in alarm. ‘But you know, no Mr Wetmore, the price of opium has fallen to the floor in Bombay? And production has increased like anything. Where will our cargoes go? Who will buy? To send them to India will bring ruin.’
Bahram looked around the table and it seemed to him that many eyes had narrowed at the sound of the last word: if there was one thing he knew about the English language it was that nothing was more harmful to a merchant’s credit than the word ‘ruin’. He hastened to undo the damage. ‘I don’t mean any of us here, of course. We are all amply supplied with capital and will manage to get by. But what about small investors? We have to think of them, no? Many have put in whole life-savings. What of them?’
‘Exactly!’ cried Slade. ‘It seems to me from the sentimental tenor of what I have heard here that the vision of the Hongists’ blood spilt on the ground has blinded some of us from contemplating the consequences of surrendering our cargoes. Mr King and Mr Wetmore are so considerate of the sufferings of the Chinese that they are willing to drag down all those engaged in the opium traffic. But what of the ruination and destitution of those who have invested their savings in our shipments? What of their fall in station and society, leading perhaps to debtor’s prison, to workhouse alms and probably death by starvation?’
‘But surely, Mr Slade,’ interjected Mr King, ‘you are not suggesting that your investors are people of meagre means, who are in danger of being packed off to debtor’s prison? Why would a man who is on the brink of poverty sink his last few pennies into a speculation in a commodity such as opium? In my experience, no one invests in such ventures unless they have capital to spare – they are no more likely to be forced into the workhouse than you or I. This is indeed the cruellest aspect of this trade – that a few rich men, in order to grow richer, are willing to sacrifice millions of lives.’
Slade threw up his hands. ‘It is exactly as I suspected: Mr King’s heart bleeds for his Celestial friends, but he is utterly indifferent to the sufferings of his fellow merchants and their investors. And for what this readiness to plunge his fellow merchants into certain and immense loss of property? Why forsooth! Because Howqua has said at a private meeting at the Consoo Hall that his head would be taken off if we did not do his bidding. But Howqua, as we well know, is a consummate businessman, and he will say whatever is necessary to protect his own profits.’
Mr Wetmore broke in wearily: ‘I assure you, Mr Slade, Howqua believes with all his heart that his will be the first head to roll. It wrung my heart to see him at the Consoo House – I have never seen a more piteous picture.’
‘Oh please, Wetmore!’ snapped Mr Slade. ‘Spare us these Bulgarian vapours! You must remember that you are the President of this Chamber, and not some old biddy presiding over a congress of dowagers.’
‘Your language, Mr Slade, is unbecoming of a member of the Committee,’ said Mr Wetmore stiffly. ‘But I will let it pass because of the urgency of the matter at hand. But of this you should have no doubt – that Howqua, Mowqua and several other Hongists were indeed utterly struck down with fear when we saw them at the Consoo House.’
‘Howqua?’ Dent interrupted with a shrill, somewhat forced laugh. ‘But I saw Howqua this very morning, on Old China Street: that was what delayed me in coming to this meeting. He said that he and his colleagues of the Co-Hong had received certain threats from the Yum-chae, but these were just threats and no more than that. Howqua is an uncommonly shrewd man and I suspect he greatly exaggerated his fears for the benefit of Mr King and Mr Wetmore, knowing them to be, shall we say, so
mewhat softer in nature than most men. He would not of course attempt anything like that with me, or indeed most of us. When I ran into him a short while ago he appeared to be in perfectly good spirits – this Committee has my word on that.’
A silence fell on the table as everyone tried to absorb the import of this. Then Mr King, whose face had turned red, declared: ‘That is a bald-faced lie, Mr Dent!’
Now an audible hiss issued from Mr Slade’s lips. ‘If I were you, Miss King,’ he said, ‘I would watch what I say. There are certain words, you know, that entail a form of shorthand called pistolography.’
‘Be that as it may, sir,’ said Mr King, ‘I shall not, for fear of it, silence myself. I too have but recently seen Howqua, and I assure you that his apprehensions were not factitious but real; I saw with my own eyes that he was crushed down to the ground by his terrors. I give you my word that the Hong merchants are in instant fear of their lives and properties. It is not my part to defend despotic measures; I wish only to remind you that once a chain of events is set in motion, it is not in our power to make reparation or atonement. I beg you to remember that the property lost under the present dispensation can easily and in a short time be put together again – but blood once shed is like water spilt upon the ground and can never again be gathered up. The present circumstances are directly destructive to the lives of our fellow creatures; we may occasionally have called the Hongists hard names but they are still our friends and neighbours. What reasonable man could conceive of putting the pocket of an investor in competition with the neck of a neighbour?’
Mr King had invested his words with great passion but their effect upon the Committee was to a considerable extent blunted by Dent, who through the duration of his speech had been looking around the table as if to count heads and assess his support. When Mr King had finished, he said, matter-of-factly: ‘Well, it is clear that we have a profound disagreement. Mr King is of the opinion that Howqua and his ilk are in mortal fear of their lives; I, on the other hand, am equally convinced that this is just another instance of Celestial chicanery. It is my opinion that our friends of the Co-Hong are working upon the feelings of those of us who are not, by nature and inclination, imbued with the usual degree of masculine fortitude.’
‘What does masculinity have to do with it?’ said Mr King.
‘Masculinity has everything to do with it,’ said Mr Burnham. ‘It is surely apparent to you, is it not, that effeminacy is the curse of the Asiatic? It is what makes him susceptible to opium; it is what makes him so fatefully dependent on government. If the gentry of this country had not been weakened by their love of painting and poetry China would not be in the piteous state that she is in today. Until the masculine energies of this country are replenished and renewed, its people will never understand the value of freedom; nor will they appreciate the cardinal importance of Free Trade.’
‘Do you really believe,’ retorted Mr King, ‘that it is the doctrine of Free Trade that has given birth to masculinity? If that were so, then men would be as rare as birds of paradise.’
Now Mr Wetmore broke in again: ‘Please, please, gentlemen – let us keep to the matter at hand.’
‘I agree,’ said Dent. ‘There is no point in letting this matter drag on. Let us not waste any more time: Mr Wetmore has informed us about the contents of the letter he has drafted. I have an alternative to propose: it is my suggestion that we write to the Co-Hong in general terms. Let us assure them that we too are persuaded of the need to eventually bring a halt to the trade in opium; let us tell them that in order to determine how best that end might be achieved we will set up a committee. This will amply serve all our purposes; the High Commissioner will have a pretext for ceasing his oppressions and we will have yielded nothing.’ Dent stopped to look around the table and then turned to Mr Wetmore. ‘So there you have it, Mr President, your resolution against mine. Let us put it to the vote.’
Mr King too had glanced around the table, and seeing that Dent’s words had met with many nods and murmured ayes, he gripped the edge of the table and pulled himself to his feet.
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘I beg that you allow me a few more minutes for one last appeal. This is a matter that cannot be decided merely by a show of hands – not only because we are about to take a step that will have consequences far beyond this room and beyond this day, but also because there is present among us someone who sits here as the only representative of a very large population – he is indeed the only man here who can speak for the territories that produce the goods in question.’
Mr King turned now to Bahram. ‘I refer of course to you, Mr Moddie. Amongst all of us it is you who bears the greatest responsibility, for you must answer not only to your own homeland but also to its neighbours. The rest of us are from faraway countries – our successors will not have to live with the outcome of today’s decision in the same way that yours will. It is your children and grandchildren who will be called into account for what transpires here today. I beg you, Mr Moddie, to consider carefully the duty that confronts you at this juncture: your words and your vote will carry great weight in this Committee. You yourself have spoken to me of your faith and your beliefs. More than once have you said to me that no religion recognizes more clearly than yours, the eternal conflict between Good and Evil. Consider now the choice before you, Mr Moddie; I conjure you to look into the precipice before which you stand. Think not of this moment but of the eternity ahead.’ He paused and lowered his voice: ‘Who will you choose, Mr Moddie? Will you choose the light or the darkness, Ahura Mazda or Ahriman?’
The last words struck Bahram like a thunderbolt. His hands began to shake and he withdrew them quickly into the sleeves of his choga. Really, it was unfair, profoundly unfair, that Charlie King should pull such a trick on him; to speak not only of continents and countries, but of his faith. And what did continents and countries matter to him? He had to think first of those who were closest to him, did he not? And what conceivable good could result for them if he brought ruin upon himself? For his children, his daughters and Freddy, he would gladly sacrifice his well-being in the hereafter: indeed he could think of no duty more pressing than this, even if it meant that the bridge to heaven would forever be barred to him.
By force of habit, his right hand slipped inside his angarkha, to seek the reassurance of his kasti. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat. Then he raised his head and looked Mr King directly in the eye.
‘My vote,’ said Bahram, ‘is with Mr Dent.’
Sixteen
Spasms of rheumatism had kept Fitcher confined to bed for the last several days so it fell to Paulette to gather together the plants that were to be sent to Canton with Baburao.
Time being short they decided, after a quick discussion, to send a collection of six: a Douglas fir sapling; a redcurrant bush and two specimens from the north-western coast of America – a yard-high bush of the Oregon grape, now covered with yellow flowers, and a pot of Gaultheria shallon, with glossy leaves and clusters of delicate, bell-like sepals. Also included were two recently introduced plants from Mexico – the Mexican Orange, with pretty white blooms, and a beautiful fuchsia that was one of Fitcher’s treasures: Fuchsia fulgens.
Paulette had grown attached to each of these plants, especially to the Oregon grape which had proved exceptionally vigorous. It pained her to see them being removed to the Redruth’s gig, to be transferred to Baburao’s junk; like a parent at a time of parting, she doubted that her children would be properly looked after.
‘Sir, I know I cannot go to Canton,’ she said to Fitcher, ‘but could I not travel with the plants a part of the way?’
Fitcher scratched his beard and mumbled, ‘Ee could go as far as Lintin Island; ee’d be all right as long as ee don’t get up to no flay-gerries there.’
‘Really, sir?’
‘Yes. The junk can tow the gig behind it and the men’ll bring ee back afterwards.’
‘Oh thank you, sir. Thank you.’
She ran
on deck and signalled to the gig to wait.
The junk was close by, wallowing in the water: when the gig pulled up, Baburao lowered a wooden shelf for the plants. Paulette held her breath as the pots were being winched up, and was hugely relieved when the operation was concluded without mishap. Then a ladder was thrown down for her and she climbed up on deck.
This was the first time Paulette had stepped on Baburao’s junk, and her initial response was one of disappointment. The Redruth had been anchored off Hong Kong long enough that she had come to recognize some of the unusual vessels that plied those waters: caterpillar-like passenger boats, long and thin, with seats arranged in rows; ‘funeral-boats’, piled high with coffins; two-masted ‘duck-tail’ junks, with tiered houses; and perhaps the most eye-catching of all – whale-like ‘pole-junks’, over a hundred feet in length, with mouths that looked as though they were sieving food from the water.
In a place where such vessels abounded Baburao’s junk was not a craft likely to attract much notice: she was a sha-ch’uan – a ‘sand-ship’ – which his grandfather had acquired very cheap, somewhere up north. The ship’s name was too long for Paulette to remember, but it didn’t matter anyway, because in her hearing Baburao always referred to his junk as the Kismat – the word was the exact equivalent, he said, of the Chinese characters painted on the junk’s bows.
Like every other vessel on the Pearl River, the Kismat sported an enormous eye on each side of her bows – a gigantic oculus that seemed to be keeping watch for prey and predators. In size she was smaller than both the Ibis and the Redruth, being only about sixty feet in length, yet she had more masts than either of those vessels, being fitted with no less than five. Their arrangement was as odd as their appearance: they leant this way and that, like the tapers on a wind-blown candle-stand. Only two of the masts were planted squarely in the vessel and even these were slanted at strange, irregular angles, one leaning forward and the other tilting back. As for the three smaller poles, they looked more like sticks than masts, and were attached not to the deck but to the deck rails, being placed seemingly at random around the edges of the hull. The placement of the rudder was equally strange, to Paulette’s eyes at least, for it was fitted not into the centre of the stern, but on one side of the hull, and was controlled not by a wheel, but by a huge tiller that stuck out over the roof of the deckhouse.