Foreign Mud

by Andrew Wareham

  “Boy! We shall be in New York in two days. What do you wish to do? Have you any way of making a living?”

  He shook his head.

  “Knows how to drive the buckboard. Can brush the old hoss down. Don’t do nothing else. Runs messages. Runs fast, I does.”

  It was not the most useful set of skills.

  “Do you want to work in a stables?”

  “Don’t want much, master. Drive yo’ hosses, maybe.”

  “You could go to school to learn reading and writing.”

  “Don’ want that, master. Don’ need reading.”

  “What about going to sea? You could be a cabin boy and become a deckhand as you grew bigger.”

  “Don’ like sailing, master. Drive hosses, maybe.”

  I gave up, suggested he should think about his future. We could discuss it further on another day. Fred had appeared and I raised an eyebrow to him, moving down the deck out of earshot.

  “Useless, that one be, Master Giles. Never done bugger all and don’t want to. Too old to learn new ways now. Was I you, I would put the useless object back aboard ship and send him down south again. He might make his way back to where we found him. He was happy there. Honest! He did nothing most of the day and was fed enough to get by on. He don’t want to work ten or twelve hours a day to keep himself – he ain’t never known having to look after himself and don’t want to start.”

  I was sorry for the poor lad, and exasperated, too. How did one free a youth who did not want to take responsibility for himself? If he would not work for a living, he could not be other than a slave. I came to the conclusion that the slaves must make their own future, and that the only way that could be achieved was with the gun. If the white man freed them, he was still their master for having given them a so-called liberty. No doubt a successful slave rising would end up with half of the slaves dead. The remainder would have earned the only true freedom. A harsh, ungenerous doctrine, I fear, one I am almost ashamed of – yet I still see no other answer.

  Of course, by extension, the same must apply to the poor in England. None can make them free and prosperous – they must do it for themselves. Why there has been no revolution of the masses, I cannot understand. Quite glad there has not been, I would add – I enjoy being rich. What a cynical old man I am! Unchanged, I am proud to say – I was a cynical youth as well – the great advantage of possessing an intellect, the ability to see the world as it is rather than as the fat cats want it to be. There ain’t no such thing as ‘justice’ – and a very good thing, too! Where would I be if there was?

  Enough! Suffice it to say that I could see nothing to do for Boy, other than make sure he was well fed and given the opportunity to rise from his chains, if he wanted to take it.

  I spoke to one of the businessmen and he was happy to gain a ‘servant’ for free and said he never used the whip. Boy seemed happy to go with him when I broached the possibility, thought it would be far better than freedom in the north and having to work hard simply to live.

  I gave up. My indignation at slavery remained, but my attempt to liberate this particular individual had definitely failed. Possibly the boy was too young to take responsibility for himself. I was a little upset that he might prefer to remain in slavery, let my love of liberty take a less practical form thereafter. I farewelled Boy at the docks, knowing that I should have done more and unable to imagine what. I still wonder how to give freedom to those who do not comprehend it. Not my concern, though I can see that it should be. After that, I left the great moral issues to those whose trade they were, the politicians and churchmen and confidence tricksters; I merely contented myself with sniggering whenever I heard Americans proclaiming the Land of the Free.

  We reached New York and I sought out a hotel, asking the master of the ship which was the best in his opinion.

  I was sent half a mile inland to an area of expensive stores and tall brownstone houses, found myself being charged five dollars a night for a pair of rooms and another for Fred’s quarters. Food was extra. At that cost, I expected a degree of luxury and was not too much disappointed. Meals were a disaster – that apart, the hotel was comfortable. It had a bar with at least two dozen different whiskeys which seemed a major claim to fame.

  The diet offered was exclusively overdone steak, normally with a single vegetable as a side dish; and beans – they were ubiquitous. This seemed the height of epicureanism, judging by the reaction of other diners. I ate obediently, when in Rome and all that – but I was not enthused.

  Breakfast included fried eggs, in addition to blackened steak.

  The coffee was good.

  I picked up Fred and went in search of shipping offices. It was coming towards late summer and I had no desire to delay any great length of time in New York. The idea of existing there until spring no longer seemed so clever.

  There were no vacant berths that I was prepared to take for about three weeks. Any number of little brigs and snows departing and carrying two or three passengers, sharing the captain’s facilities, but I did not fancy thirty or forty days spent that way. There was a thousand tonner going out some twenty days hence and I took a cabin on her, and one for Fred in the servants’ quarters. That left me with time on my hands.

  There were Chinese in New York, so the shopkeeper had said. I asked about and was told I could find a number of such peculiar creatures down in a part called the Battery. I was also told that the wise man visited there in daylight hours only; the nights were dangerous.

  Fred and I prepared to make a social call in that perilous quarter. He tucked an extra pistol away and checked that all of mine were loaded, despite my telling him that I had done so myself.

  “Can’t carry a blade open-like in this town, sir. Men don’t wear ‘em, more’s the pity. Put a sticker in your belt, hidden by your frockcoat, just in case.”

  There was a selection of knives in the hardware stores, sat next to the pistols and obviously for no purpose other than fighting. Good steel, too, many of them made by master smiths. I still have the eight-inch blade I selected, razor sharp and dagger pointed in a strongly and neatly sewn leather sheath.

  We took a cab down to the shores and along to the Battery, the driver telling us that we would walk most of the way back, cabbies not plying for hire in those streets. It was illuminating to watch the houses change, shrinking it seemed every few hundred yards and turning into tenements as we reached our destination.

  The cab stopped close to a street market and I paid the driver and added a substantial tip in thanks for bringing us so far. He touched his hat with his whip and told me to look out for my purse.

  “They rascals watching you, mister! They see you take out a purse and where you put it back again.”

  I grinned and thanked him once more.

  I stood still, watching all around and looking for the out of place. If my lord from Canton had come here, he would have made his mark, in a subtle fashion but visible to one who knew.

  “Do you see that hotel over on the corner, Fred?”

  “The one with a pair of heavies at the door, Master Giles?”

  I nodded.

  “Looks prosperous, so it does, and nobody walking in or out. Side door is busy. All men going in. Those heavies have spotted us, Master Giles. Best we walk on into the market, so that we don’t seem to be watching them.”

  We moved, ambling slowly.

  “Chinaman just come out from the side, Master Giles. Coming this way. Crossing our front if he keeps to his line.”

  I increased my pace a little, came within a yard of the Chinese man and gave him ‘good morning’ in Pidgin. He started and looked amazed at me.

  “The sun shines red at dawn on the Pearl River.”

  I doubt he had ever heard the password given in Pidgin. I do not believe that I had ever officially been made free of it, but I had ears and had used them in Canton. The old problem with any secret password – it needs be said aloud.

  It was amusing to watch his face as he st
ruggled for proper impassivity and decided to give the answer.

  “It shines now on the Hudson… How does a gwailo know such a thing?”

  “If Mr Fong is in your company, be so good as to inform him that Giles Jackson is here.”

  Original errand postponed the young man ran back the way he had come.

  The so-called hotel boiled – men peering from the doors and withdrawing their heads rapidly while others trotted out of the sides and rear and formed little groups that just happened to surround the pair of us at an almost unobtrusive distance. If they decided that I should not be privy to their password, then I was not going away again.

  The original young man appeared and ran across to me, bowing low as was correct for a juvenile to a senior of the triad.

  “Mr Fong is not present, honoured sir, yet there are other gentlemen who would wish to greet you.”

  Spoken in unaccented English – a bright lad, this one. I smiled and turned to accompany him, knowing that the greeting might take the form of the strangler’s cord if it had been decided that I was an inconvenience. Always a risk greeting the unscrupulous in their own homeland.

  We entered the front door and penetrated a lobby distinguished by a sign in English saying ‘Full’. A genuine would-be guest would be turned away with no suspicions aroused. The decoration was that one might expect of any cheap hotel of the area – almost clean and very old Western tables and chairs set out in the normal fashion, ready for morning coffee, it might seem.

  I was led through a rear door and entered Canton, all scarlet and gold and rich. An older man dressed in robes stared appraisingly and then bowed briefly to me.

  Evidently he knew my face and accepted me. I bowed lower than him, Fred, as experienced as me in Chinese ways, bending almost to his waist.

  “Mr Jackson, has Pearl River come to anchor off New York?”

  “No, sir. She is working the Sugar Islands to the best of my knowledge, manned by her captain and under my orders. After a first few successes it became more correct for me to withdraw from a visible place aboard ship.”

  The atmosphere eased – I had not failed and come begging for assistance.

  “I am working with the country trader Ainslie still and he has bidden me to examine the possibilities of trade with New York. If I am to establish a presence here, then I must in all courtesy pay my respects to those who know me.”

  All tension fled – I was behaving properly, acting with courtesy, as was my reputation in fact.

  “Where are you to be found in New York, Mr Jackson?”

  “At the Grand Hotel for the next fifteen days, honoured sir. Then I am to take ship to England before the winter storms render the Atlantic unpleasant.”

  As it should be – I was sufficiently senior that I would not wish to endure the discomfort of storms at sea.

  “Very good, Mr Jackson. I shall inform Mr Fong of your visit.”

  We bowed and I left the room, guided out to a carriage by a servant.

  Half an hour saw us outside the hotel, satisfied with the morning’s work. If it suited the lord, who was presumably ensconced in luxury close to the hotel or actually in it, then I would be contacted. Was there no work for me, then I had paid my respects correctly and no more would be said and I would not intrude again.

  Fred and I spent a couple of days wandering the relatively small area of the rich and couth and examining the stores to gain an idea of what was imported and was in demand in New York. The intention was to glance around the docks later in the week; I was invited to dinner first. A note was left at the desk and I was informed that a carriage would pick me and my man up for the early evening. I should be dressed to dine in company. There was no signature, no names given. It was obvious that I must obey.

  Fred dug out my London clothing and I regretted having left Valet behind in England. I had not expected to enter the world of fashion, or what passed for it in New York. Between us, we decked me out in appropriate evening dress – the tailcoat was just coming into fashion and I was properly equipped, all severe in colour and cut, a rich plum, I remember and a restrained frill at the neck and plain white cravat. I displayed a sufficiency of jewellery to show that I was rich but not so much as to be vulgar as well – diamond pin and my favourite signet ring. I had discovered that the family actually had arms and a man in Winchester was cutting a ruby for me but for the while I had the old ring made in Bombay and gloriously false, but very tasteful.

  I am big enough to carry plain clothing to good effect – always useful when meeting people for the first time. I did not know who I would be seeing that evening, presumed that they would be business acquaintances of Mr Fong, myself to be an English frontman for him.

  We were driven a bare mile to a very large house overlooking an open area of grass and trees, a park of some sort and of good size for the centre of a city.

  A butler opened the door of a mansion that would not have been out of place in London. He took my name and announced me while a footman led Fred to the rear, all very correct.

  “Mr Giles Jackson of Shawford Manor and Bombay.”

  I stood for a few seconds while an elderly American bustled up to me.

  My host was dressed flamboyantly, far brighter than I was and wearing gold and diamonds in some abundance. We made an entertaining contrast, I did not doubt, him barely reaching my shoulder and portly and sixty years of age at least.

  “Jonathan Hartley, Mr Jackson. I am glad you could honour my house tonight.”

  “My pleasure, Mr Hartley. Your hospitality is much appreciated, sir.”

  I took pains to pronounce my words precisely in the new King’s English, all very Germanic in intonation. I am told that the dialect was introduced into England after the Forty-Five, served as an announcement of loyalty to the new German kings. Whatever, it had become the language of Mayfair and made a statement in itself.

  There were a dozen other guests, all older than me, husbands of importance with wives selected as decoration for them. They were introduced and smiled at and we spoke of nothing for a while before being called to table.

  The food was edible, which made a pleasant change – evidently Mr Hartley had imported a chef. We chatted of nothing except for comments on the arrogance of the French who were interfering with American trade it seemed. The Americans were in process of building a small navy, I recall. It later made its mark on the nautical world, but that was for the future.

  The ladies withdrew and the atmosphere suddenly changed.

  “You have considerable experience of the Orient, one understands, Mr Jackson?”

  Unsaid was the question of how that could be at my age.

  “I was forced to leave England as little more than a schoolboy, sir. My father fell into the hands of a trickster, one who promoted canals. I have recently regained the estate, in fact, but found myself bound for India at a tender age. I was fortunate in being brought on in trade and ended up in Canton when still barely of man’s estate. I was able to take a significant role in the trade in foreign mud, sufficient that I was able to return to England still young and in a position to stand in Winchester watching at the gallows where my father’s nemesis came to a deserved end.”

  That expurgated account was much approved of. I had shown great virtue, it would seem, particularly in avenging my unfortunate father.

  “Ah, ‘foreign mud’, sir?”

  “Opium in the head, Mr Hartley. Traded in large quantities between India and Canton. The appetite for the medicinal compound is vast in China. I believe some slight amount also reaches the United States from Bombay.”

  I made the last comment in deliberate innocence, it being obvious that I was present for some reason good to them. My sole virtue had to lie in the trade in mud; I had no other skill or knowledge of use to them.

  “The Company has made itself awkward to American traders of late, sir. It would seem that they wish the monopoly of Indian trade to remain wholly in English hands.”

  I showed unsu
rprised, chose my words with care.

  “Tea and silks may only be purchased against silver, sir. Taels and catties, the Chinese call their silver ingots. The Chinese will import almost nothing – some amount of dyestuffs and tin and copper – other than opium. John Company does not wish to see opium diverted away from the Canton trade. It will permit English country traders to do as they will, however. The problem is that too much bullion has been taken out of England in the past and the government there wishes to see no more leaving the country. There is a whisper as well that the Company is in some financial difficulties. It will never be admitted but the Company is almost on the rocks. Such being the case, foreign competition is most unwelcome.”

  The Americans showed their surprise – John Company was one of the great financial bastions of the world.

  “Whatever may occur, the Company cannot be permitted to fail, Mr Jackson.”

  “Exactly, sir. Every other consideration must pale.”

  “Thus, sir, if we might wish to import – purely for medicinal use – some amount of your ‘foreign mud’, then we must go through the hands of English traders. It might, for example, be impossible for Chinese gentlemen to take a major role.”

  “Visibly, most certainly so, sir. There must be an English presence. A country trader to make the purchases in India and to send the cargo off in a country ship. Having left Bombay? Well, it might be possible to sail to the Cape of Good Hope and there tranship the goods or some part of them to American vessels. The country ship would then return bearing silver ingots and all would be well. It might be possible to move a substantial tonnage that way, sir. Being based in Bombay, it might be feasible to purchase in Persia, a major supplier of opium, and add that to the trade. I believe the Bombay Marine has shown unwilling to permit the entry of American ships to the Persian Gulf.”

  “What role does the Chinaman play in this, sir?”