“He’s a loyal friend. I can tell you that.”
“Ambitious.”
“Certainly. But part of him’s a dreamer, I think.”
“Ambitious dreamer. They’re the ones that do best of all, quite often. Or worst, if they don’t succeed.” Aunt Harriet considered. “I’ve got a feeling Trader’s going to be all right. What he needs,” she said decidedly, “is a nice girl. One of us. Somebody we all like, to steady him and help him fit in.”
“What about the money?”
“Girls are usually brought out here to find rich husbands, of course. But I know one or two who are…not short of this world’s goods, as they say. Perhaps he should consider one of them. I could introduce him. He’s very handsome. And there’s something about him…a bit of the brooding romantic, the Byron thing…you know.”
“Marry rich…Trouble is, I’m not sure he’d do it. Too proud, you see. He’d think it dishonorable.” Charlie paused. “He’s not without vanity, either. He wouldn’t want to be called an adventurer.”
“You know,” said Aunt Harriet wisely, “why he wants the Lomond girl? Because he can’t have her.”
“Probably.”
Aunt Harriet sighed. “Well then, I for one can only pray to the Almighty that the opium trade gets back on its feet again.”
* * *
—
Benjamin Odstock always seemed to take life easy. After his midday meal, he’d have a siesta. In the evening, he’d usually look in at one of the Calcutta merchant clubs. He never missed a good day at the racecourse and was quite in demand for dinners. And thanks to his social life and the voluminous correspondence he maintained with contacts in places as far apart as Singapore and London, Benjamin Odstock was extremely well informed.
So it came as quite a shock to John Trader when, as he entered the office the very next morning, that gentleman looked up from the latest pile of letters and grimly informed him: “The British government isn’t going to pay us.”
“Our compensation? For the opium?” Trader’s heart sank. “Do you know this for a fact?”
“No. But it’s the only explanation.”
“Tell me,” said Trader in a low voice as he sat down opposite Odstock.
“It begins when Jardine gets to London last autumn. He whips up the opium interest, which is quite large, and they start lobbying Parliament, the merchants, everyone. Soon all London’s heard how we’ve been robbed, how the British flag has been trampled on, and how the Chinese have committed atrocities against the innocent British merchants of Canton.”
“They didn’t actually commit atrocities,” Trader interposed.
“They might have. Same thing. Do you want compensation or not?”
“I do,” said Trader.
“Jardine gets an interview with the foreign secretary, Palmerston himself. Tells him the whole story, how we need the navy; gives him maps, everything. Palmerston listens. Then silence. Why is that?”
“Perhaps he wants to verify the story.”
“Nonsense,” Benjamin retorted. “That’s not how governments work. And certainly not how Palmerston thinks.”
“There’s opposition in London, then.”
“There is. The bleeding hearts, the missionaries. That humbug Gladstone. Even The Times newspaper doesn’t approve.” He shook his head. “But that’s not the point. The point is that the government’s weak. They may not even have a majority in Parliament. Trouble in the countryside. Bad harvests. And in the cities: Chartists and the like, wanting a vote for every man, God help us. Worse, there are problems around the empire, from Jamaica to Canada. And the threat of hostilities in Syria. Palmerston’s got a lot of other things to think about. And what’s worst of all?”
“It has to be money.”
“Of course it does. At the end of the day, it always comes down to money. And there, it’s very simple. There ain’t any. The Chancellor of the Exchequer says so. Baring’s been going around London telling anyone who’ll listen that there’s no money for anything. And although he’s a senior member of the government, I think he may be telling the truth.”
“So the navy’s not coming, after all?”
“I didn’t say that.” Benjamin Odstock paused. “Something’s up. Recently, a British Navy vessel was ordered to leave Bombay for a rendezvous unstated. I’m hearing word of other navy vessels gathering in Ceylon and out at Singapore. And now our governor general, here in India, is quietly gathering regiments for some sort of expedition. No official word as to why.”
“That doesn’t prove—”
“Wait. There’s more. You know that Elliot and a good many of our people, including my dear brother, have returned to Macao. Lin’s threatened to kick them out again, but so far he’s done nothing. The emperor’s promoted Lin to governor, by the way. The point, however, is Tully writes me that Elliot received a private letter from Palmerston. Contents secret. But Elliot was overjoyed. And soon after, what does he do? Starts looking for a fast clipper to take him up the China coast. All the way up to the ports that supply Peking. Now why should he—a well-qualified naval officer, remember—want to do that? You tell me.”
“Reconnaissance.”
“Exactly. Ships gathering. Troops. Elliot, in person, wants to inspect the coast without saying why.” Odstock gazed at him. “Which means…?”
“Good God.” Trader stared at him. “We’re going to blockade the entire Chinese coast. That’s far beyond what Elliot planned.”
“Planned?”
“Just something he said to me once, in confidence. Please go on.”
“Well, it’s typical Palmerston. You have to understand how his mind works. The man’s an imperialist. You think he can tolerate the way the emperor of China wants our ambassador to kowtow to him? Or that we’ve always been forbidden to trade at any port except Canton? Or—if he ever saw the damn letter—that Lin sends the British monarch a lecture about how to be obedient?”
“Could it work?”
“Oh, I think so. China needs trade. They need all kinds of materials, foodstuffs as well, copper and silver, of course—they’re desperate for silver—most of which come from other nations, through the many ports along the coast where we are not admitted. A blockade of all trade would hit them very hard indeed. And if there’s one thing the British are good at, it’s a blockade.”
“All the same, declaring war on the entire Chinese empire…I’m amazed Palmerston could get Parliament to agree to it.”
Benjamin Odstock took a pinch of snuff. “He hasn’t.” The stout merchant watched Trader’s look of astonishment. “Members of Parliament keep asking him what he’s up to, but he won’t tell ’em.”
“Is such a thing legal?”
“God knows. But he’s doing it anyway. The ships and troops are on the way. By the time Parliament finally finds out and complains, it’ll be too late.”
“I’m shocked.”
“Do you want your money back?”
“Yes.”
“Palmerston has given no indication to Jardine or anyone that he’ll consider making us good. Indeed, if he’s unwilling to cough up the money now, still less will he do so after incurring the huge costs of an expedition and blockade. But we’ll still get our money back in the end.”
“From China itself.” Trader nodded. Elliot’s original plan, but on a bigger scale.
“That’s it. From the emperor of China—after he’s paid all our military expenses.” He gave a nod of satisfaction. “Palmerston wants to uphold the dignity of the British Empire. But if he invests in a war with China, he’ll expect a financial return.” He smiled. “After all, if the British Empire isn’t profitable, there’s not much point in it, is there?”
“So all my hopes depend on the Chinese emperor,” Trader said quietly.
“They depend upon the British Navy,” Odstock
corrected him. “Much better bet.”
“It could take years,” said Trader.
“True. But in the meantime,” Benjamin Odstock continued, “we can still make money in the opium trade.”
“We can?”
“Is opium still being grown here in India?”
“Yes.”
“Opium’s like a river, my boy. A river of black gold. Nothing can stop it. The pent-up demand is huge. You can block one channel, but it will find another.”
“That’s what my friend Read said. What channels are we talking about?”
“Tully’s already supplying the dragon boats directly.”
“I thought Lin had taken them over. Turned the smugglers into coastguards.”
“And they’re turning back to smuggling again just as fast—for the right money. Some of them are probably working both sides of the fence. It doesn’t matter—well, not to us—so long as the opium gets through.”
“So we really are pirates, aren’t we?” remarked Trader a little sadly.
“Those good old sea dogs back in Shakespeare’s day—you know, Sir Francis Drake and all that—they were pirates to a man. That’s how it all began. Besides, you forget one thing.” He smiled. “We’re British pirates. That’s quite different.” He patted his stomach, chuckled, and took another pinch of snuff. But then suddenly his expression changed. He glared at Trader. “You don’t want to become a missionary, do you?” he asked fiercely.
John Trader thought of his cousin Cecil. “Absolutely not,” he replied emphatically.
* * *
—
Aunt Harriet was supposed to be coming with them, but as her husband wasn’t feeling well that day, she elected to stay with him at the bungalow. So it was just Charlie and John Trader who went to the dance.
The social life of Calcutta was still carrying on at the end of April. By late May it would be getting uncomfortably hot, and most of the British would be leaving for the pleasant hill stations in the Himalayan foothills.
The ball was being held in one of the clubs. Naturally, the women were all resplendent in ball gowns, and the men were in white tie or military evening dress, but this dance was a friendly affair, where military men, government families, and the better sort of merchants mixed together.
They’d no sooner arrived than Charlie caught sight of Mrs. Lomond and Agnes sitting on one of the many sofas and chairs around the edge of the ballroom. Colonel Lomond was standing behind them. Charlie hadn’t known they’d be there, and he certainly wasn’t going to be pushy—a greeting later in the evening would have done perfectly well—but Mrs. Lomond, seeing not one but two young men who could dance with her daughter, signaled that he should approach at once. The colonel, at the sight of Charlie, gave him a friendly nod. As for Trader, Lomond might have nodded to him, or he might not have. It was impossible to say.
And so they all danced. Charlie and Trader took turns to lead Agnes out. There was a quadrille, then a cotillion. When a waltz began, Colonel Lomond remarked that when he was a young man, no decent man would ask a respectable woman to dance such a thing.
“Not even if she were his wife?” Mrs. Lomond asked, giving him the gentlest tap with her fan.
The colonel took the hint and led her out. Trader noticed with amusement that Colonel Lomond actually danced the waltz rather well.
But above all, Trader had to admire Charlie. His friend knew the form, and he was assiduous. He brought a constant stream of young fellows over to be greeted by or introduced to the Lomonds, so that Agnes had fresh partners for almost every dance.
As they all went in to dinner in excellent humor, he heard Colonel Lomond murmur, “Thank you, Charlie. Well done.”
* * *
—
Halfway through dinner, Charlie decided that, delightful as the evening had been so far, he wasn’t quite happy. It was Colonel Lomond’s fault. Not that he’d done anything so bad. It was what Lomond hadn’t done that irked him.
He hadn’t addressed a single word to John Trader.
It wasn’t obvious. If Trader said something, Colonel Lomond listened politely. If Lomond in turn said anything to the table in general, it could certainly be assumed that Trader was a recipient of the remarks along with everyone else. It was just that he had also addressed particular remarks to his wife, Agnes, and to Charlie himself. But not to John. Towards John Trader, Colonel Lomond maintained an air of coldness that was only just within the bounds of good manners.
Of course, it was partly Trader’s fault. He’d deliberately irritated the colonel that first time they’d met at the Bengal Military Club, when, after all, Lomond had been kind enough to give him lunch. He’d behaved badly. But it seemed to Charlie that it was time that there was at least some thaw in their frosty relationship. He owed it to his friend.
So turning to Mrs. Lomond, and fully in the hearing of both Agnes and the colonel, he brightly inquired: “Did I ever tell you how Trader here saved my life?”
“Really?” Mrs. Lomond smiled at both the young men. “You didn’t, and you must tell me at once.”
Trader looked embarrassed, and Agnes looked intrigued. The colonel didn’t look in the least intrigued, but there was nothing he could do except listen.
“Well,” said Charlie, “it’s how we first met. In London. I’d been dining with my father at his club and stayed quite late. To get to my lodgings, I had to cross Soho. Instead of hailing a cab, like a fool I decided to walk…And I was strolling down a street, quite alone, when all of a sudden, out of the shadows step two men, one with a cudgel, the other with a knife. And they demand my money. I hadn’t much on me, but I did have my father’s watch, a gold hunter that he’d given me when I was twenty-one. I didn’t want to part with that.”
“So what did you do?” asked Agnes.
“Shouted for help at the top of my lungs,” said Charlie. “I thought, if I can just hold them off for a minute, and help comes, I might have a chance. Stupid idea, really. But it was my lucky night. Around the corner a hundred yards ahead, at a run, enters our hero!” He laughed. “To be precise, a young dandy in evening clothes, including a tall opera hat…which fell off as he ran. And carrying an ebony walking cane. Nor,” Charlie continued with delight, “did our hero hesitate, not for an instant, at the sight of the two armed men. In fact, I’d say it spurred him on.” He turned to Trader. “There’s a rather fierce warrior hiding inside you,” he said. “Don’t think I never noticed.”
“What next?” Agnes wanted to know.
“The men turn to meet the assault. I got my arms around the fellow with the cudgel. And the man with a knife comes at our hero.” He smiled at them all. “What the villain with a knife doesn’t know is that Trader here is a first-rate swordsman. It took only a moment before the brute I was trying to hold threw me off. But by that time, the knife had gone flying through the air and its owner was backing away from Trader. As he saw his friend shake me off, however, he made a great mistake. He made a rush at Trader.”
“Did Mr. Trader hit him on the head with his stick?” asked Agnes.
“No, he did something cleverer, though more difficult,” Charlie replied. “He executed a perfect thrust. It was so fast, I couldn’t even see it. The tip of his stick caught the villain precisely between the eyes. It made a crack like a rifle. Next instant, the man was down. Lucky not to be dead, actually. The brute with the cudgel took one more look at Trader and fled. Incidentally,” he added, “it turned out these same two fellows had robbed and killed another chap like me, just the month before. So I was more than lucky that Trader answered my call.” He stopped and gave them all a big grin. “That’s how we got acquainted.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Lomond, “that was very exciting, I must say.”
“Have you ever fought a duel, Mr. Trader?” asked Agnes hopefully.
“No, Miss Lomond,” Trader answered.
“Farley calls me a swordsman, but all I really do—or used to do in London—was a bit of fencing. Just for sport and exercise, you know.”
“Well, time to go back to the dancing,” said Colonel Lomond.
“We’re still eating, Papa,” said Agnes.
“So we are.” Colonel Lomond turned and addressed Trader at last. “You’re not one of those fellows who carries a sword stick, are you?”
“No, sir. Never owned one.”
“I have always been of the opinion,” Colonel Lomond continued, “that deceitfully concealing a weapon is one of the vilest things a man can do. No gentleman would ever walk the streets with a sword stick.”
“He hasn’t got a sword stick,” said Mrs. Lomond with a trace of irritation.
“Glad to hear it,” said the colonel.
* * *
—
Agnes had just started to dance a waltz with Trader when she suddenly said she felt tired and asked if they might sit the dance out. As the others were all dancing, they had a sofa to themselves. Having sat down, she seemed to recover quite quickly. “Have you ever been to Scotland, Mr. Trader?” she asked.
“Only once, in the summer, while I was up at Oxford. I liked it very much.”
“I love Scotland, Mr. Trader. I suppose the nearest I can imagine Heaven would be the family’s estate in Scotland. My uncle has it, of course.”
“That’s easy for me to understand,” Trader said. “Several of the merchants in the China trade have acquired estates in Scotland. Both Jardine and Matheson, for a start.”
“And should you like to do that, do you think, Mr. Trader?”
“Yes. In fact, I hope to very much.” He smiled. “But I must sound a note of caution. The prospect may be in my mind, but it is not imminent. I’m really in no position to do more than dream, at present.”
“But you’d like to.”
“I can’t think of anything better in the world,” he said in all honesty. “What is it that you love yourself about Scotland, may I ask, as someone who really knows it well?”
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