Was it arrogance, ignorance, laziness—or perhaps even the sense that accuracy about foreign names sounded too fussy, intellectual, and not quite decent? Probably all of these things.
The ancient city’s walls lay some way back from the river. Only Chinese could live in the city. But between the walls and the river, the foreign merchants’ quarter had a splendor all its own.
A huge open space, empty apart from a couple of customs booths, ran like an extended parade ground along the waterfront for a quarter of a mile. Behind it, a long line of handsome whitewashed buildings in the Georgian colonial style, many displaying verandas with smart green awnings, stared boldly across the square to the water. These were the offices and warehouses of the foreign merchants, and also the living quarters where they dwelt. Each building was occupied by merchants from a different country and had a high flagpole in front of it, on which their national flag could be raised. And since these merchant gentlemen were traditionally known as factors, their splendid quarters were called the factories. British, American, Dutch, German, French, Swedish, Spanish: There were over a dozen factories lining the parade.
As the chop boat came to the jetties, Trader noticed a Chinese porter run across to one of the larger buildings. By the time that his trunks were all onshore, he saw a stout figure bustling towards him. There could be no doubt who it was.
Tully Odstock’s cheeks were mottled purple; corpulence had made his eyes grow small; tufts of white hair sprouted from his head. He made Trader think of a turnip.
“Mr. Trader? Tully Odstock. Glad you’re safe. I heard you went up the coast. Did you sell any opium?”
“Yes, Mr. Odstock. Fifty chests at six hundred each.”
“Really?” Tully nodded, surprised. “You did well. Very well.” He seemed preoccupied.
The porters had already put the strongbox and trunks on a handcart. They started towards the British factory.
“They tell me sales are slow,” said Trader.
Tully gave him a swift look. “You haven’t heard the news, then?” And seeing that Trader looked blank: “Suppose you couldn’t have. Only happened this morning. Not too good, I’m afraid.” He gave a short puff. “Of course, it’ll all blow over. Not to worry.”
“What exactly,” Trader asked suspiciously, “are we talking about?”
“Chinese playing up a bit about the opium. That’s all. I’ll tell you over dinner. We eat quite well here, you know.”
Trader stopped. “Tell me now,” he said, surprised at his own firmness towards the older man. “How much do we stand to lose?”
“Hard to say. Quite a bit, I should think. Talk about it over dinner.”
“How much?”
“Well…”—Tully puffed out his purple cheeks—“I suppose…in theory you understand…you might say…everything.”
“I could lose everything?”
“It’ll all blow over,” said Tully. “Let’s have dinner.”
* * *
◦
Snow in the mountain passes had added a week to his journey, and Shi-Rong had been afraid he might keep Commissioner Lin waiting. So when he finally reached Guangzhou, he was relieved to discover that the mandarin had still not arrived.
He’d decided to make good use of his time. Whatever Lin might require of him, the more he knew about the locality, the better.
As soon as he’d found temporary lodgings, he set out in search of a guide, and after a few inquiries he found exactly what he needed: a Cantonese student preparing to take the mandarin provincial exams. Fong was a skinny, bright young fellow who was only too pleased to earn a little money in this way.
For three days, they toured the bustling old city, the suburbs, and the foreign factories. Young Fong proved to be well informed and a good teacher, too. Under his guidance, Shi-Rong continued to improve his Cantonese, and he soon found that he could understand a good deal of what he heard in the streets. For his part, young Fong would ply Shi-Rong with questions each time they ate together, anxious to know what this important visitor thought of all he saw.
“You like our Cantonese food?” he asked during their first meal. “Too much rice?”
“The dishes smell so rich. And everything tastes too sweet,” Shi-Rong complained.
“Sweet and sour. That’s southern Chinese. Try the white cut chicken. Not so sweet. And spring rolls.”
At the end of the second day, as they sat drinking rice wine together, Fong asked him if Guangzhou was what he’d expected.
“I knew everyone would be in a hurry,” Shi-Rong confessed, “but the crowds in the market and the alleys…You can hardly move.”
“And we all have darker skins.” Young Fong grinned. “And we only care about money. That’s what you say about us in Beijing, isn’t it?” And when Shi-Rong couldn’t deny it: “All true!” Fong cried with a laugh.
“And what do the people of Guangzhou say about us?” Shi-Rong asked in return.
“Taller. Paler skin.” Fong was naturally treading carefully. But Shi-Rong coaxed him until the young Cantonese admitted: “We say the northern peasants just sit around on their haunches all day long.”
Shi-Rong smiled. The peasants of the northern plains would often squat together in this manner when they were resting from their work. “But they still get the crops in,” he replied.
He was especially interested in what Fong thought about the opium traffic. At first, knowing Shi-Rong’s position, Fong was noncommittal. But by the fifth day, he trusted Shi-Rong enough to be honest.
“The orders come from Beijing. Raid the opium dens. Arrest the opium smokers. So they make a big sweep, right out into the countryside. Put a lot of people in jail. But the people still want opium. Waste of time, really. Even the governor thinks so. Doesn’t matter what you do. Wait a year, all back to normal.”
A week had passed before Commissioner Lin arrived. He was pleased to find Shi-Rong already there, and still more so when his young assistant told him how he’d used the time. “Your diligence is commendable. You will be my secretary, but also my eyes and ears.”
Lin at once commandeered a house in the suburb close to the foreign factories and told Shi-Rong he was to lodge there also. The first evening he outlined his plan of action.
“I have read all the memorials from the province on my journey here. During the next week, we shall talk to the governor of the province, the local mandarins, the merchants of Guangzhou—and their servants, who will tell us more—so that I can make my own assessment. Then we shall smash the opium trade. Who do you think we should strike first?”
Repeating what Fong had told him and other things he had seen for himself, Shi-Rong confessed frankly that he thought it would be a long and difficult task to dissuade people from using the drug.
“I will burn all their opium pipes,” Lin said grimly. “But you are right. The only way to root out this poison is to stop the supply. So, young Mr. Jiang, who is our greatest enemy?”
“The Fan Kuei—the red-haired foreign devils who bring the opium into the kingdom.”
“And what do we know about them?”
“I have been to their factories. It seems they are not all the same. They come from many countries. And only a few of them have red hair.”
“The largest criminals are from a country called Britain. Nobody seems to be sure exactly where it is. Do you know?”
“No, Excellency. Shall I make inquiries?”
“Perhaps. Though it does not really matter where these inferior peoples dwell. I have learned, however, that this country is ruled by a queen. Also that she has sent some kind of official here.”
“Yes, Commissioner. His name is Elliot. From a noble family. At present he is in Macao.”
“Perhaps this queen does not even know what these pirates from her country are doing. Perhaps her servant has not told her.”
“It is possible, Commissioner.”
“I am writing this queen a letter. It is being translated into her own barbarous tongue. When the draft is ready, I shall give her servant the letter to convey to her. I shall reprimand her and give her instructions. If she is a moral ruler, no doubt she will order this Elliot to execute the pirates. The worst is a man named Jardine. He should start with him.” He paused, then looked searchingly at Shi-Rong. “But the Fan Kuei are not important. It is a small matter for the Celestial Empire to deal with a few pirates. So I ask again: Who is the real enemy, Mr. Jiang? Do you know?”
“I am not sure, Excellency.”
“It is our own merchants here in this city: the Hong, the merchant guild—the very group of men the emperor has authorized to deal with these foreigners. They are the traitors, the ones who allow the barbarians to sell opium, and we shall deal with them severely.”
The next few days were busy. Without saying what he intended to do, Lin conducted numerous interviews and collected evidence. Shi-Rong found himself working day and night taking notes, writing reports, and running errands. After a week, Lin gave him a small mission of his own. He was to go to the house of one of the Hong merchants and talk to him.
“Don’t give anything away,” Lin told him. “Be friendly. Talk to him about the foreign merchants and their trade. Find out what he really thinks.”
The following afternoon Shi-Rong made his report.
“The first thing I discovered, Excellency, is that he doesn’t believe the opium trade will be stopped. Interrupted, yes. But he thinks that once you have done enough to please the emperor, you will leave. And then things will go back to the way they were before. In the meantime, although he knows your reputation for honesty, he clearly finds it hard to believe you won’t be bought off like everyone else.”
“Anything else?”
“Two things, Excellency. His tone suggested that he and the barbarian merchants have become personal friends. More than that, I discovered from his servants that he personally is deeply in debt to one of them, a man named Odstock.”
“You have done well. The emperor was correct to keep these Fan Kuei away from our people. Yet even when we confine them to a single port, in a compound outside the city walls, they still manage to corrupt our Hong merchants, who are supposed to be worthy men.”
“Indeed.”
“You said there was a second thing.”
“Probably of no significance, Excellency. But he told me that this merchant, Odstock, daily expects the arrival of a young scholar who is to be a junior partner in his business. Though it seems strange,” he added, “that a man of education would become a merchant.”
“Who knows, with these barbarians? When he arrives, I want you to meet him. See if he knows anything useful.”
“As you wish, Excellency.” Shi-Rong bowed his head.
“And now,” Lin said with a grim smile, “I think we are ready. Summon all the members of the Hong to gather this evening.” He gave Shi-Rong a quick nod. “We strike tonight.”
* * *
◦
John Trader gazed at Tully Odstock in horror. They were sitting in his small office, overlooking the narrow alley that ran from the front of the English factory to the Chinese lane at the back. Two oil lamps shed a yellowish glow over the leather chairs in which they were sitting. The atmosphere was warm and stuffy; but to John Trader, it felt cold as the Gobi Desert.
“Happened last night,” Tully explained. “This Lin fellow called all the Hong merchants in. Told them they were criminals and traitors. Then he says that the factory merchants are to surrender all their opium, and that the Hong must arrange it—they’re responsible for all the overseas trade, you see—and that if they don’t, he’ll start executing them. He’s given them three days. In the meantime, none of us are allowed to leave Canton.”
“When he says all our opium…”
“Not just the small amounts we have here at the factories. He means all the bulk we keep at the depots downriver and out in the gulf, and the cargoes in ships still coming in. He means everything we have. It’s a huge amount.”
“And the opium I bought and paid for?”
“That, too, of course.” Tully nodded sympathetically. “Rather hard luck that, I must say. But when you invested in the partnership, that immediately became Odstocks’ money, you see.” He brightened. “You’re in for ten percent of future profits, of course.”
“What profits?” Trader asked bitterly. Tully said nothing. “So I’ve lost my investment.”
“Wouldn’t say that,” Tully replied. “Daresay it’ll all blow over.”
“Are we going to surrender the opium?”
“There’s a meeting about that. Day after tomorrow. You’ll be there, of course,” Tully added, as though that made things better.
* * *
—
John Trader didn’t sleep much that night. Odstocks’ quarters in the English factory contained two small bedrooms. Tully’s looked into the alley. John’s had no window. At midnight, lying in his stuffy box of a room, listening to Tully’s snores through the plaster wall, John reached over to the brass oil lamp still burning with a tiny glow and turned up the wick. Then taking a piece of paper, he stared at what he had written. Not that he needed to. He knew all the figures by heart.
Total investment. Debt. Interest due. Cash on hand. Staring dully at the numbers, he calculated once again. Assuming modest expenses, he could pay the interest on his debt and live for a year, but not much more. Fifteen months at best.
The Odstock brothers didn’t know about his debt. He’d used the extra investment to negotiate a better deal from the partnership. In normal circumstances, it would have been a good bargain. But now? He was facing ruin.
And why had he done it? To win Agnes, of course. To make a fortune fast. To prove to her father that in time he’d be able to make Agnes the mistress of a Scottish estate. He knew it could be done. The image of her face came before his eyes. Yes. Yes, it could be done. More than that. It was destiny. He felt it with a certainty he could not explain. It was meant to be.
So he’d left the safe mediocrity of Calcutta and gone for broke in China—chosen the high seas and the storms and the sharp rocks, if he failed. Death, if need be, like so many thousand adventurers before him. He had to. It was his nature. And even now, faced with ruin, a little voice told him that, given the choice, he’d do it all again.
But as he stared at those bleak figures in the middle of the night, he was still afraid. And he slept only fitfully in his dark room until the sound of Tully Odstock stirring told him that, outside, it must be morning.
* * *
—
“Time to introduce you around,” Tully had said as they’d set out after breakfast. He’d said it briskly, as though there was nothing to be alarmed about.
John still wasn’t sure what to make of Tully. He supposed he was a solid old merchant like his brother. But had the two brothers accepted his money and given him a partnership just a bit too quickly? If he himself had concealed the extent of his borrowings, had they in turn been less than entirely forthcoming with him about the state of the business?
And when Tully said the trouble would all blow over, was he trying to fool a new partner or, perhaps worse, was he fooling himself? For one thing was sure—Trader could almost smell it—Tully Odstock was afraid.
Yet nobody else seemed to be alarmed at all. By noon, they’d been to every factory. He’d met French and Swedish merchants, Danish, Spanish, Dutch. Almost everyone agreed: “This is just Lin’s opening bid. We’ll refuse it. Then he’ll negotiate.”
“He needs to make a show to impress the emperor so he can get his promotion and move on to somewhere else,” one of the Dutch merchants assured them. “That’s how these mandarins play the game.”
And if this sounded he
artening, still further encouragement came when they got to the American factory.
Warren Delano was only thirty, a handsome fellow with a fine mustache and sideburns and a friendly smile—though John did not fail to notice a pair of steely eyes—who’d already made a fortune in the opium trade. He was everything that John hoped to be. And he dismissed Lin’s demand easily.
“All the opium I sell is on consignment,” he told them. “Way I see it, I can’t surrender goods that belong to other people. Don’t have the legal right. Simple as that.”
“Damn good point,” Tully said. “A third of our opium’s on consignment, too. Belongs to Parsee merchants in Bombay.”
“There you go, then,” said Delano.
By the time they left, it seemed to Trader that his plump partner was covering the ground with a new confidence. “We’ll go back this way,” Tully said, leading him into Old China Street.
Behind their facades, which looked across the waterfront, each of the factories went back, in a series of tiny courts and stairways, for over a hundred yards to a Cantonese thoroughfare known as Thirteen Factory Street, which formed the boundary between the factories’ enclosure and the Chinese suburb. Three lanes ran from this thoroughfare through the factory block to the waterfront: Hog Lane, which ran down beside the English factory; Old China Street, beside the Americans’ factory; and another between the Spanish and Danish factories. And although they lay within the factory quarter, these lanes were lined with little Chinese stalls selling every delicacy or household good that their owners imagined the Fan Kuei might buy.
As they walked past the stalls and came out into Thirteen Factory Street, Tully jerked his thumb contemptuously to the left, towards a handsome old Chinese mansion a short distance away. “That’s where Commissioner Lin has based himself.” He snorted. “Suppose he thinks he can keep an eye on us from there.”
China Page 9