He was not amused, the more so when he finally realised that I was not joking.
“How do you suggest we go about civilising the Chinks, Mr Jackson?”
“They ask the same of me, frequently, Mr Flint. They, of course, wish to know how to civilise the gwailo.”
Mr Flint was not entertained. The artist was.
We progressed to the port, the many glasses of hot fortified wine doing some little to soothe their savage breasts; more than music would, certainly. That’s one of the Romans, by the way, as pinched by Congreve. Just showing off my erudition, you know – I did have an education, and never let it hamper me.
I have never enjoyed drinking port in a temperature of ninety degrees; most of the English belted it down by the bottleful.
“We intend to take ship to Canton in the immediate future, Mr Jackson. It will be possible to order the Navy to transport us, I presume?”
“Possible but unwise, my lord. A naval vessel arriving out of season could be translated as a threat. Better to charter a country ship or a fast lorcha. A country ship would normally be larger and would arrogate more prestige to your mission. It might be practical to request an escort from the Bombay Marine, sir. What would you say, Mr Mockford?”
“A schooner of the Marine could be made available, I expect, Mr Jackson. Nothing larger for the bulk being off on the escort to the haj. The frigates and sloops are all on their way to the Red Sea.”
A mere schooner was worse than nothing, my lord believed. They would take a country ship, if such was available.
Mockford raised an eyebrow to me. I nodded. There would be no country ship to hand. I would pass the word around the country merchants. The Delegation would be accommodated on a lorcha; that would pass a message in Canton of itself.
They sailed two days later, to my great relief. The artist, Porteous, remained in Bombay, deciding there was so much to portray there that he would follow on later, when the occasion arose. He was a pleasant fellow. I was glad to make the suggestion and save his neck for him.
I shall digress at this point, as so often, and lose my strict chronological narrative. Some six months after they sailed from Bombay we heard from Canton that they had arrived, had demanded audience of the Hoppo and had been refused, had been ordered out of Whampoa on pain of instant death. Their original lorcha had sailed and they were given use of another by a kindly local mandarin – an interesting concept in itself. They sailed in a hurry, were observed to set course to the north and never were seen no more. There was a storm, a great wind, soon after and opinion was that they went down at sea. Word from Mr Tung in Bombay was that they were taken by a pirate fleet, their few presents for the Emperor stolen and themselves knocked over the head. I informed Mockford but he told me he much preferred a storm at sea and that was how it was recorded for London’s benefit.
Back to business! Where was I? Watching the lorcha sail in company of the artist, Porteous. We became friendly, he and I, and I introduced him to the sights of Bombay, and to Mr Tung, himself one of the more important spectacles, being Chinese and viewed with hatred by the bulk of the Indians.
It would seem that the great trading junks had called at Bombay over the centuries and had through sharp trading and outright piracy made themselves ill loved.
Funny thing that, the Chinese were hated wherever one travelled in Asia – they must have worked hard over the centuries to gain their reputation. An acquaintance passed through Botany Bay – not as a convict – some years later and the blackfellas there knew of the Chinese and spat when they mentioned them. Most peculiar.
Where was I?
In Bombay and sitting for the artist, Porteous. My face appears in two of his Bombay portraits – saw them at the Academy a year or two back, Sunny being in a cultural frame of mind. She said that he made me less handsome than nature.
No comment.
Mr Tung made money trading, dyestuffs almost entirely, his sole other good being ivory in the tusk, much called for by the artisans of Canton. I made myself useful to him, mainly by introducing him to other traders. The only occasion I was truly valuable came in the rioting season, the month building up to the Monsoon when the weather was at its hottest with no cooling winds and the humidity cruel. This was the time when nagging wives and husbands woke up with their throats cut and irritating children were beaten half to death for being in the wrong place at the wrong moment. Every year some Hindoo would discover a Mussulman in commission of sin and call out the Mob. The followers of Al Lah would respond and half of one of the poor districts would be burned down and a few thousands of its inhabitants massacred, both religions fairly equally.
Mr Tung could not quite comprehend such a collapse of good order and thought to stand aside, it being none of his business.
I received word from Mockford, who had his own informants through the Company, that the match was applied to the tinder and the rioting starting up not far from the wharves and warehouses owned by country merchants. The soldiers were out to defend the Company’s premises and would protect the warehouses closest to them. I made my way to the owners of the godowns nearest the Company and inquired of empty space.
The convoy had sailed for London a couple of months previously and most traders were low on inventory, building their stocks across the year. I was able to hire warehousing with little difficulty. I went in search of Mr Tung.
“With respect, Mr Tung, you must act with immediate urgency. All of your goods being made ready to ship out to Canton must be taken across to the Hardcastle godowns. Today. The riots will spread as far as the Lamqa premises tonight.”
How and why? If he placed a notice announcing his ownership, surely that would suffice to keep the ill-minded out. He was neither Hindoo nor Mussulman – they could have no animus against him.
It took an hour of explanation.
“They are in a mood to set fire to anything that is not theirs, Mr Tung. And anyone! The riot is not for anything, it is against everything. They will not care for reason, Mr Tung. We must get clear of the Mob. They are motivated by hatred, not by any logic. They will burn all they can, including the places where they work and the warehouses containing the food they would eat. We must take ourselves and all we possess to a place of safety.”
Mr Tung was no more than half-convinced. In the end, he consented for knowing that if I was wrong, his lord would blame me, while if I was right, the strangler would come calling on him for losing his lord’s goods.
We stacked wagons high with chests and sacks and hired running porters to carry bales. I led the convoy the half of a mile to Hardcastle’s godowns and we offloaded dry and secure there. Mr Tung insisted on returning to load his furnishings and the remaining contents of home and offices and we completed the second journey just before the redcoats appeared and set their cordon around the protected area.
“They will allow entry to no others now, Mr Tung. Thirty minutes later and we would be left outside in the street.”
Mr Tung was amazed. He did not expect ever to be treated as an ordinary mortal – he could not understand that the certainties of Canton did not apply everywhere else on Earth.
“Look, Mr Jackson! There is smoke, flames, down along the waterfront!”
“The Mob is up, Mr Tung. Watch.”
A great host of street people and the poorest shanty dwellers came running, begging for shelter. The redcoats – Bengal Native Infantry, a Company battalion - refused them entry into our safe area and fired volleys to drive them away. Minutes later, they did the same for the rioters, even-handed in their dispersal of all who threatened the peace.
A substantial part of the town burned, but it was none of it important, containing the shacks inhabited by the powerless and insignificant – no loss to the trading communities of all races.
“Why, Mr Jackson, did the soldiers not march to destroy the rioting mob?”
“Why should they, Mr Tung? One religion killed another. Neither party was Christian, so what business was it of Joh
n Company?”
“People must live in tranquillity, Mr Jackson! All disturbance must be forbidden.”
“Not our way, Mr Tung. We are not to order people to live as we desire. If members of the local population wish to kill each other and burn out the weak, that is their affair, not ours. Those who try to burn us out are to be shot, most certainly, but we must not interfere with their own amusements.”
Possibly for the first time, Mr Tung understood that our civilisation was not merely a pale imitation of his; it was wholly alien in thought and habit. I suspect that was the point at which it occurred to him that the gwailos were a menace to China rather than a minor, not inconvenient, irritant.
Poor chap! A prophet despised in his own land for being aware of the truth! He knew that the gwailos must destroy his China and felt obliged to inform his lord of that fact. By so doing, he in effect said that China was weaker than the foreigners – an intolerable truth, utterly unacceptable to his masters. It was easier to kill the messenger than to digest his message – I saw no more of Mr Tung after that year. He was an honest and able man trapped in a culture that had little value for either quality. He would have done little better in England, I suspect.
A pity, but essentially irrelevant – what was one more among the millions who swarmed in China?
Back to business…
Mr Tung said little to me as we inspected the ruins of the warehouses we had leased. The owners tried to enforce their lease with its six months remaining. I laughed at them, tore up the documents and claimed civil strife had rendered the contract null and void. The owners were Parsees and knew better than to try to take an Englishman before the courts in Bombay.
We bought a burned out site for pennies and built our own premises there, cheaper far than the previous rental. The riot did Mr Tung a favour, in fact, adding another few hundreds to his profits. He was not best pleased to discover that he was a beneficiary of such wickedness.
A year passed from my return to Bombay and Mr Tung agreed that he no longer had need of my services.
“My Lord has sent word that you were to be begged to return to Canton when you were free, Mr Jackson. You may wish to sail at earliest.”
I informed Mr Mockford that I was to sail for Whampoa on an early day.
“You are no longer to act for Tung, Mr Jackson?”
“I am no longer needed there, sir. I might suggest that it would be to the Company’s interest to protect Mr Tung in his trading here. He is the front, as you know, for a most powerful lord in Canton.”
“Annoying! Don’t really want any damned Chinks getting a foothold here, Mr Jackson!”
I agreed that it was undesirable, but unfortunately necessary.
“Perhaps eighty per cent of the foreign mud going through Canton passes through the hands of Mr Tung’s master, sir.”
“Your master as well, I believe, Mr Jackson?”
“Indeed, Mr Mockford. I suspect he will not remain all-powerful for too many more years, sir. I think, but do not know, that he has established Tung here to give him a place of refuge when the need arises. The lord is standing on a pinnacle in Canton just now. All very well, but there ain’t much room to manoeuvre in such a location, sir. One slip and there is a long way to fall.”
“We will not want him here if he has lost his standing in Canton, Mr Jackson.”
“What if he arrived in company with a flotilla carrying chests of specie and bullion, sir? Would a man accompanied by literally millions of taels in silver and tens of thousands of ounces of gold, and no doubt a tonnage of silks and such, be unwelcome?”
Mockford stopped, eyes literally bulging.
“Truly, Mr Jackson?”
“To the best of my knowledge and belief, sir, yes.”
“My God! I would build him a palace with my own hands!”
I laughed. Not too loudly, mind you – I might have rolled up my sleeves and joined him.
We took a drink while we reflected on the nature of the changed reality.
“How do you go to Canton, Mr Jackson?”
“Quietly, sir. With considerably less fanfare than the good Lord Askham insisted upon, for example. Aboard Hardcastle’s country ship, due to sail next week.”
“What have you heard of Askham, Mr Jackson?”
“For sure, sir? Nothing. As a probability, he was taken within sight of the Ladrones and quickly dealt with. It is not impossible that the doctor - Southgate, I believe - survived, medical men being regarded with some respect and he having foreign knowledge that might be assessed by Chinese practitioners. If he did live, then he will eventually be put on an American ship, I believe, unless he chooses to remain in China, which might be permitted. We will see no more of him.”
“Good! The Company has informed government that he drowned, his ship overtaken by a great wind. The Navy knows of such and will confirm his fate to Whitehall, to their satisfaction. Better accident than foul play. We want no fleets sailing to Canton in a vain hope of extracting revenge.”
I agreed wholeheartedly – he had died in a storm at sea, poor man. Commerce demanded that to be the case, and if the English wished to drink their tea next season, they would ask no inconvenient questions.
The voyage to Canton was as tedious as ever, though the sailors thought it lively enough, sailing the South China Sea outside of the protection of a convoy. I was within reason sanguine, fairly much certain that the last lorcha out would have carried a message from Mr Tung that I was on my way back to my lord’s side. Of course, I might have been wrong or my lord might have made his inevitable misstep and be dangling at a whipping post in front of the new Hoppo.
It all added a frisson of excitement when we sighted a fleet off the estuary of the Pearl River.
The master of the country ship swore heartily and ordered the guns cleared.
“Beg pardon, Captain Hardcastle.”
The ship was captained by Hardcastle’s second son, very convenient for the family interest.
He scowled at me, not enthused to be interrupted by a passenger, knowing that I was a China hand and possessing knowledge beyond his. No doubt his father had warned him to treat me with respect, being a sensible old fellow.
“Might I suggest you should run up the house colours, sir? Identify the ship, as you might say.”
Merchantmen did not normally bother with flags and ensigns and such. The young captain muttered something to a mate – I could not hear exactly what but picked up one or two distinctly uncomplimentary words.
I did not think I was ‘a Chink-loving bastard’; I might have been biased in my opinion.
The flag broke from the foremast and was repeated at main and mizzen, Hardcastle doing the job thoroughly.
A few minutes and a single junk broke away from the fleet and made its leisurely way downwind towards us and after an hour or so heaved to a few yards from our side. A voice yelled in, presumably, Cantonese.
I shouted back in Pidgin, giving my name.
A different voice requested me to show my face.
I stood to the rail, wondering if I might not be greeted by a volley of musketry. I lifted my hat and gave a brief bow.
The second voice apologised for disturbing me.
I thanked him for his courtesy and assured him that I would inform my lord of his most respectable behaviour.
We parted company, repeating our bows.
I turned to Captain Hardcastle and recommended that he should make sail.
“We shall not be disturbed again, Captain. A direct course for Whampoa would be wiser than to call at the hulks behind Lintin Island, I would suggest. The ship will be watched and I should be seen to disembark at soonest, hurrying to report to my lord in Canton.”
“Will it work again, Mr Jackson? Showing our house flag to the pirates, that is?”
I smiled my best.
“Maybe. If my patron in Canton is still in power, then most likely, yes. If he falls – and what the chances of that are I cannot even guess – then you wo
uld be well advised to rely on your cannon instead. My feeling is that it worked this time and you should not chance your luck again. Was I you, sir, I would sail in convoy for the next season or two. Canton is always a risky sort of place and I suspect it may be getting a damned sight riskier just now.”
They asked why I was taking a chance if that was so.
“Fishing in troubled waters, Captain Hardcastle. I have a yen to make my fortune and there will be a lot of gold floating around at the moment. If I do not die interestingly, I may come out far richer than I am today. In any case, I can run fast and life can become very tedious in the trading line.”
Captain Hardcastle thought I was crazy. So did I when I considered the matter.
Loony or not, I went ashore at Whampoa and exchanged bows with a gentleman acting more or less as harbourmaster and dressed in silks and wearing the button of a low-grade mandarin. I took pains to bow lower than him. He may have been a junior in the public service but any and every gwailo was inferior to him, in his opinion; in Whampoa my opinion did not count.
The mandarin addressed an interpreter who spoke to me in Pidgin, wondering, politely, why I had chosen to journey to Canton out of season
I explained that I had been ordered to make my best speed to Canton, there to report to Mr Ainslie’s shroff and thus to his trading contacts.
It would have been ill-mannered to mention the leader of a triad to a mandarin, an employee of the Qing and a buttress of Chinese legality. He knew, naturally, of Ainslie’s shroff and of my master, but what was not said need not exist.
“No doubt the barbarian is correct to hurry to his master’s call.”
That was deliberately offensive and served as a warning – a junior mandarin could afford to offer an insult to a favourite of the triad. I bowed and showed abashed, shamed in front of the crowded waterfront.
I was told that I might go and immediately scurried to the offices. The shroff was waiting inside.
“Trouble, shroff?”
“God alone knows, Mr Jackson. The Hoppo was relieved of his duties last week. He was relieved of his head yesterday. Another has been appointed, of course, and presided over his demise. The new man is said to have been a general and came escorted by some thousands of soldiers – how many thousands is unknown but speculation makes the number greater every day.”
Foreign Mud Page 8