China

by Edward Rutherfurd

  It was half an hour later, when the food had been arranged and Matheson had kindly offered him the use of Jardine’s bed, that John Trader looked out the library window as the red sun sank in the west and saw that out on the waterside, the soldiers were beating and kicking the three Hong merchants to force them to get up. But the three men had been kneeling so long that they could scarcely walk, and one of the soldiers had to carry Joker’s chains.

  * * *

  —

  The sunlight was streaming in through the window when Trader awoke in Jardine’s comfortable bed. Sunday morning and the sun well up. He clambered quickly out of bed. He ought to go and look after poor old Tully at once. Making his way hurriedly to the big dining room, he thought he would see if there was coffee to be had, and if so, he’d take a pot to his partner. But there was no need. For there at a table sat Tully Odstock himself.

  “About time you got up,” Tully remarked cheerfully.

  “What happened?”

  “My young mandarin has gone. Left before dawn. Dent’s fellows have gone, too. And most of the troops. We have a truce for the day.”

  “Why?”

  “Commissioner Lin seems to think he can show what a good fellow he is by respecting the Christian Sabbath.”

  They went for a walk down Hog Lane and made the circuit along Thirteen Factory Street and back to the waterfront. There were still quite a few soldiers about, and not many stallholders, but otherwise one might have thought things were back to normal. An hour later, the two Hong merchants who’d been paraded with Joker in chains appeared at the English factory. They looked tired and somewhat bruised from their ordeal the day before, but accepted some light refreshment. Joker did not appear. They said he had taken to his bed.

  It was in the late morning that Trader began to notice something odd. The place seemed to be too quiet. Was it just because of the Sabbath? He met Matheson, who remarked that his comprador had disappeared. In the English factory, there was hardly anyone to serve lunch. “Bad sign,” Tully said. “The servants always know things before we do.”

  At the start of the afternoon came word that Captain Elliot, the superintendent, was on his way back from Macao. “It doesn’t say when he’ll arrive,” Matheson told them, “even if the Chinese authorities let him through.”

  “Why would they stop him?” Trader asked Matheson.

  “They may want to keep us isolated.”

  “Can’t see what use he’ll be if he does get here,” grunted Tully, “unless he brings a battleship.”

  * * *

  —

  The rowing boat appeared on the river about twenty minutes after five—a small clinker-built vessel, hardly twenty feet long, with half a dozen oarsmen. At first no one took any notice of it.

  The afternoon had turned cloudy and the river looked grey, but a break in the clouds opened a yellow gash across the water, and it was Trader, standing on the riverbank, who noticed the sunlight catch the blue and gold of a naval tunic in the stern of the rowing boat, guessed what this must mean, and ran to alert Matheson and the others.

  * * *

  —

  It can’t be easy, Trader thought, for a single man to look impressive when he’s clambering out of a rowing boat. But insofar as it was possible, Elliot achieved it.

  He was in full dress naval uniform. His sword hung at his side. He was a good height, and with a plumed hat on his head, he seemed taller. He straightened himself, went across to the group of merchants gathered to meet him, and announced: “Gentlemen, you are now under my protection.”

  And Trader stared at him in surprise.

  He knew Charles Elliot was about thirty-five and had risen to the rank of captain in the British Navy. So he’d expected a seasoned, hard-faced commander. In front of him, however, was one of those fair-complexioned Englishmen who continue to look like schoolboys until they are forty. There was even a light down on his cheek. His pale blue eyes, Trader thought, might have belonged to an intelligent clergyman. And when he spoke, it was with a faint lisp.

  And this was the man who’d just announced he’d protect them. If Trader had privately thought Tully Odstock was too dismissive of Elliot, at least now he could see why.

  “I shall call a general meeting of all the factories this evening,” Elliot announced. “But first, Matheson, you and your colleagues must tell me exactly what’s been happening. In the meantime,” he added as they reached the entrance to the English factory, “would young Mr. Jardine kindly see that the Union Jack is flying on the flagstaff here.”

  As Elliot entered, Trader remained outside. He didn’t think he’d be required while the superintendent was closeted with Matheson and the other senior men. He preferred to walk alone for a little while and absorb what he’d witnessed.

  So he was down at the far end of the quay, sitting on the same iron mooring post where he’d sat so wretchedly three evenings ago, and idly watching a small Chinese chop boat, with lanterns lit, go past, when he realized that the chop boat was turning and heading towards him, to the dock. He stood up and moved away from the mooring post. The chop boat drew alongside.

  And in it Trader saw a burly form with a cigar jutting from his mouth. It was Read, the American.

  “Evening, Trader,” he called out cheerfully. “Thought I’d drop by. Didn’t want to miss the fun.” He stepped ashore and shook Trader’s hand.

  “God, I’m pleased to see you,” Trader burst out. “Have you any idea what’s going to happen?”

  “Not a clue. I’ll take my bag to the American factory, then come across to you fellows. Have you got any whiskey in there?”

  * * *

  —

  There were more than forty men gathered in the big room in the English factory: mostly British and Americans, some Parsee merchants from India, and a few merchants from other nations. The two merchants from the Hong were also present. Trader and Tully Odstock sat in the back row, with the Americans Read and Delano beside them.

  Elliot might speak with a slight lisp, but he came to the point tersely. “Gentlemen, you must all be prepared to leave Canton, with all your possessions, at once. Our trade can be continued, if necessary from the open sea; but the attitude of the Chinese authorities is such that, although no violence has been offered yet, I cannot guarantee your future safety in Canton.”

  “As I understand it, they’re not allowing anyone to leave here,” Matheson pointed out.

  “I shall demand passports straightaway for all those who wish to leave.”

  “And if we are threatened with violence?” Matheson pressed him.

  “Then we may thank God,” Elliot replied firmly, “that we have a British man-of-war out past the Bogue. I also know that there are two American warships, the Columbia and the John Adams, expected any moment at Macao. Naturally our own man-of-war stands ready to protect all our friends here at Canton, and I hope I may count upon assistance from the American warships in turn.”

  “That you may!” Read and Delano called out loudly.

  The meeting broke up. And perhaps because Elliot had spoken so clearly, with the Americans supporting him, Trader felt a bit more encouraged as he and Odstock were leaving. “Elliot sounded firm,” he suggested.

  But Tully only sniffed. “That British man-of-war—the one he says will save us. Have you any idea how it’s going to get upriver past the Chinese shore batteries?”

  “No,” Trader confessed.

  “Well, nor has he,” said Tully, and went to bed.

  * * *

  —

  By nine o’clock in the morning, they’d all heard the news. “No passports. The Chinese have refused. Point-blank. No one’s to leave,” Matheson told them in the factory library.

  “We’re trapped like rats in a barrel,” Tully muttered.

  “Our Chinese servants have all disappeared,” somebody call
ed out.

  “It’s a game of bluff,” Matheson reminded each arrival. “We just need to stay calm.”

  Soon afterwards, they saw Chinese officers riding small sturdy horses issuing from the alleys onto the waterfront. They made for the two little customs booths, where they tethered their mounts. Next, from the mouths of the alleys, men on foot began to emerge. Five, ten, twenty, a constant stream. They wore conical hats and loose dress, and they carried pikes and clubs. “Local police,” said Tully. “They’re supposed to report to the Hong. Protect the merchant quarter.” He snorted. “Lin’s controlling them now.”

  They kept on coming. A hundred. Two hundred. They formed up in lines in front of every factory.

  A few minutes passed before Trader saw, from the far end of the factories, a single burly figure emerge and start walking towards them. It was Read.

  Trader held his breath. Read walked in front of the police lines. They watched him, but they did not move; and when Read reached the English factory, nobody stopped him from going in.

  “Morning, gentlemen,” he remarked cheerfully as he came into the library. “Got any food?” It was hard not to smile in his cheerful presence. Trader looked at him gratefully. “I’ve been watching Delano try to boil an egg,” Read added by way of explanation.

  “Can you boil an egg?” Trader asked.

  “Yes, but it was more amusing to watch Delano try and fail. Do I see bread and marmalade? And coffee?”

  “Help yourself,” said Matheson. “You seem very calm,” he remarked approvingly.

  “No use getting in a flap. Stiff upper lip, and all that.”

  * * *

  —

  An hour passed. The police in front of the factories were doing drill. Was this to intimidate the merchants, or were they preparing for an order to move from Lin?

  The men in the English factory took turns keeping watch at the window. Trader, Tully, and Read were all sitting in leather armchairs when Dent came to join them.

  “If the police do break in, I suppose it’s me and Tully they’ll arrest again,” Dent remarked.

  “Maybe,” said Read. “But if Lin decides to cross the line and use force, he might as well arrest all the opium traders.” He considered a moment. “They might be in a Chinese jail quite a while.”

  “You’ve assumed Lin’s got control of his men,” Tully Odstock observed. “But it could turn out another way. I’ve seen riots before. Long hot day. Big crowd. Tempers get short. Then something happens. Who knows what? Anything can set them off.”

  “And then?” asked Trader.

  “They riot. Burn the factories down.” He nodded grimly. “With us in ’em.”

  Nobody spoke.

  * * *

  —

  The sun beat down that afternoon, burnishing the iron moorings along the water’s edge until they were too hot to touch. The police ended their drill and set up bamboo shelters with matting roofs to give them shade. But they gave no sign of leaving, sun or not.

  Elliot looked in at the library and they all gathered around. “There will be a negotiation,” he told them, “as soon as I meet with the commissioner.”

  Matheson introduced Trader to him, explaining that Trader had only recently arrived. Elliot acknowledged Trader’s bow very civilly and remarked that he had chosen to come at an interesting time.

  They ate salt beef from the larder that evening, with the few fresh vegetables they had left. At least the English factory still had a well-stocked wine cellar.

  The sun went down. Through the window, Trader saw the police patrolling the waterfront. No change there. The men were sitting down to play cards, but Trader wasn’t in the mood, so he took up his book again and had managed to become quite lost in the riotous comedy of Pickwick when a voice interrupted him.

  “Stop reading and talk to me,” said Read. He was carrying two glasses of brandy.

  “I must say,” Trader remarked, “I’m glad to have your company, but you must wish you hadn’t come.”

  “I like to live dangerously.” Read gazed into his brandy meditatively. “Not that I think we’re in that much danger.”

  “Why?”

  “The Chinese like the tea trade. They’ve no real interest in destroying the tea merchants. For remember, you fellows may sell opium, but you also buy tea.”

  “I have another question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “The Chinese authorities may not like the opium trade, but it’s been going on for years. Now, all of a sudden, the emperor wants to destroy it. I buy the moral crusade story. But is there something else going on here?”

  “Good question.” Read took a sip of brandy. “You could say, Mexico.”

  “Mexico?”

  “I was drinking with a sea captain in Macao last week. This is how he explained it. What’s been the main trading currency all over the world for centuries? Silver dollars. Spanish dollars. Pieces of eight. It’s been the only currency everyone trusts. And a lot of the silver came from Mexican mines. But then Mexico becomes independent from Spain. They mint their own silver dollars. Not bad quality. But out on the high seas, everyone still wants Spanish pieces of eight, and trade expands, and there aren’t enough of them. People will even pay a premium for them—more than their face value. In short, acceptable silver currency for trading is in short supply. With me so far?”

  “I think so.”

  “Right. What has always been the problem with the Chinese trade?”

  “They sell to us, but they don’t buy much in return.”

  “Exactly. Half a century ago a Chinese emperor looked at English goods for sale and was not impressed.”

  “And nothing’s changed.”

  “Right. And when the Chinese sell us tea, how do they want to be paid?”

  “In silver.”

  “When your comprador goes to the local Canton market and buys vegetables, he uses small change, copper coins. But larger transactions, including all government taxes and expenses in China, are paid in silver. So the Chinese government always needed lots of it. They sold us tea, silver flowed in.”

  “Right.”

  “And when we didn’t have enough silver, because pieces of eight are in short supply, we discovered a neat trick: Chinese smugglers will pay us silver if we get them opium. Then the circle was complete. We deal in opium and pay China for tea with their own silver.”

  “So China’s not getting the silver it wants.”

  “Oh, it’s much worse than that. Opium’s addictive. China’s purchases of opium are growing much faster than their sales of tea. Result: More silver is flowing out of China than coming in. Far more. They’re bleeding silver.” He shrugged. “The emperor has to do something.”

  “So this is all about silver, then,” Trader exclaimed. “Nothing else at all.”

  “Not so fast, Trader. You asked why the emperor is striking at us. I believe he’s got no choice because of the silver problem. But does that mean he isn’t concerned about his people? I’ll bet he’s concerned. Or that the opium trade isn’t a dirty business? It is.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “I don’t believe in single causes, Trader. Black and white, good versus evil. Real life isn’t like that. Historians in the future will find all kinds of things going on here at the same time, some of which may even be random chance. If historians can discern any pattern, it will probably be complex, a system in flux, like the sea.” He smiled. “God made the universe, Trader, but that doesn’t mean He made it simple.”

  * * *

  —

  The placards appeared the next morning, all over the waterfront. They were five feet square, erected on posts, and covered with Chinese characters. Dr. Parker went out to read them.

  “Lin says he’d rather be patient than resort to violence, but that we’ve got to surrend
er the opium. If Elliot can’t control the British merchants, then there’s no point in him being here. And if he doesn’t obey, Heaven may strike him down.” Parker gave them a wry look. “The threat may be heavenly, but it’s real enough.”

  “Damn rude,” said Tully.

  “The tone is more like a schoolmaster telling off unruly schoolchildren, I’d say,” answered Parker. “But then, that’s probably how Lin sees it.”

  Elliot appeared briefly in the library. Matheson accosted him at once. “This is getting us nowhere,” Matheson said. “I’m going to offer Lin enough for him to satisfy the emperor and save face. Four, maybe five thousand chests. With luck, that may do the trick.”

  “I forbid you to offer him anything,” Elliot replied sharply.

  “Do you have a better plan?” Matheson asked angrily.

  “Yes.”

  “What is it?”

  But Elliot turned on his heel and walked out.

  * * *

  —

  It was early evening when he reappeared. Trader, Read, Matheson, and most of the British merchants were in the factory, and they gathered around.

  “Gentlemen,” he announced calmly, “it is clear that Lin cannot and will not bargain. I am therefore going to surrender all the opium to him.”

  There was a gasp of astonishment.

  “All of it?” queried Matheson.

  “Everything we have—here, out at the depots, in ships down the gulf. Even the opium on consignment. Every last chest.”

  “We’re to give it all to Lin?” cried Dent. “I’ll be damned if I will.”

  “No. You will give the opium to me. Then I’m going to give it to Lin.”