River of Smoke

Twelve

December 9, Markwick’s Hotel

Oh my dearest Puggly, there has been the most frightful to-do here and it has led to such extraordinary happenings that I am all at sixes and sevens. So much has transpired that it seems impossible that it should have started only the day before yesterday – but so it did, and I can hardly credit it because the day had begun in such a promising way.

I had succeeded at last, you see, in persuading Jacqua to sit for me! And it took no little contrivance, you may be sure, for not only did I have to persuade him, but I had also to prevail on Lamqua to give him leave from his duties at the workshop. This he was most reluctant to do, for fear of exciting the resentment of the other apprentices, and it was not until I had offered a copy of another recent Chinnery canvas that the issue was settled in my favour. I brought Jacqua back to Markwick’s Hotel like a trophy won in battle – and so flushed was I with triumph that I positively slammed the door on Mr Markwick (who had of course, followed at our heels, mumbling and muttering in the most odious way).

It was the very first time that Jacqua – or anyone for that matter – had been in my room and I confess I was a little worried that he might be upset by the disorder (for he is so very neat in everything). But on the contrary he was quite entertained – or so at least I like to think for he laughed out loud when a shoe was discovered on my only chair (but whether I am right to read this as a sign of amusement I do not know, for I have noticed that Chinese people do sometimes laugh when they are shocked). Fortunately the mishap did not prevent him from sitting on the chair or else I would have had a problem on my hands – for I had already resolved, you see, to depict him in a seated position, after the manner of Andrea del Sarto’s ‘St John the Baptist’ (I’m sure I’ve shown you an engraving: it is truly the most prodigious picture – of a youth whose robe has been pushed down to his waist, baring a splendidly muscular and utterly unsaintly chest). Of course I was not so brazen as to suggest that Jacqua disrobe himself in like manner (I am not, as you well know, my darling Puggle-bunny, one of those feeble painters who needs to see a body in order to create its likeness) – and besides one does not wish to seem forward… apart from which it is also quite cold in my room, and it is not right, I think, to incommode one’s Friends (but perhaps when it is a little warmer…).

I did however take the liberty of arranging Jacqua’s limbs to my satisfaction and he bore this imposition with such good humour that I may have lingered on this task a little longer than I should have done. For scarcely had I repaired to my easel than we were interrupted by a great uproar in the Maidan. We both ran out to the terrace and were confronted with a most disquieting sight. A crowd had gathered in the Maidan and people were rushing about in disarray. At the centre of the tamasha was a paltan of Manchu sepoys with flags, pennants and plumes protruding from their helmets and uniforms. The paltan was marching through the Maidan in a square formation; in the midst of it some dozen or so prisoners could be seen, bound together by chains. Such was the press of people around the captives that not much was visible of them apart from their heads – and of these only a couple were tonsured and pigtailed in the Chinese manner: the rest were turbaned or bandannaed in an unmistakably Hindusthani fashion!

Achhas in chains? The local constabulary so rarely imposes itself upon foreigners that Jacqua was as amazed as I: he too had never seen anything like it before. Who could these unfortunate Achhas be? What was their crime?

Seized by curiosity, Jacqua and I ran down to the Maidan and thrust ourselves into the crowd.

It took Jacqua only a few minutes to learn what was afoot: the troops had raided Mr Innes’s house, in the Creek Factory, and had caught him in flagrante, unloading opium from a ship’s cutter. They had then arrested the men in the boat, amongst whom were two locals, who had served as guides. The rest of the crew were lascars and they too were now to be incarcerated in a chowki inside the walled city!

The two guides were bruised in body and their clothes were torn to bits. The lascars were unmolested but they too made a pitiable sight, in their bare feet and their thin cotton pyjamas and kurtis, with nothing to protect them from the cold but the bandhnas around their heads and the cumblies over their shoulders. They must have been gubbrowed out of their wits but they did not show it: they seemed stoic and resigned, in the usual Achha way. Even though I knew them to be smugglers and richly deserving of their fate I confess I could not help feeling some pity as I watched them shuffling along, with their eyes lowered: what would I have done, I wondered, were I in their place, surrounded by an angry crowd, in a strange city, being led off to a Celestial prison?

With Jacqua’s help I pushed my way to the front of the crowd, which had in the meanwhile been pressing closer and closer to the guardsmen and their captives. The paltan was now entering Old China Street and in passing through this defile I was pushed abreast of one of the lascars. He was lean of build, but sturdy-looking and although he was hanging his head like the others, I had the impression he was quite young. I was close enough to see that the grimy bandhna around his head was a worn and faded gamchha, and this led me to wonder whether he might not be from Bengal, as lascars often are.

The clamour of the crowd seemed to grow louder as we passed through the shaded confines of the street. This distracted the guards and I was able to push still closer to the young lascar: I could see only the side of his face, but something about the cut of his jaw led me to think I had seen him somewhere before. The crowd was so thick I could not get a good look at him – but I swear to you, from where I stood he looked very much like that ‘brother’ of yours: your beloved Jodu.

But you must not worry, Puggly dear. In the first place I cannot be sure of who the boy was; and Jacqua assures me anyway that ‘cuttee head’ is not to be the fate of those lascars (I confess I had begged him to inquire, for this thought had not eluded me…) – but no, you may be assured it will not come to that; they have merely been incarcerated in the citadel.

Since that day, a semblance of normalcy has returned to Fanqui-town yet nothing has been quite the same. The Creek Factory, where Mr Innes lives, is under siege, with soldiers and guards posted all around it. You might ask why do they not enter the factory and seize Mr Innes? According to Zadig Bey, they will not do this because it has always been the custom here for the Co-Hong merchants to stand surety for their foreign counterparts. The authorities insist that it is the Hongists’ duty to drive Innes out of Canton: if he chooses not to leave it is they who will be made to suffer – and the penalties that have been inflicted on them are indeed frightful.

I was to see proof of this with my own eyes when I made my next attempt to visit the Pearl River Nursery.

But I mustn’t get ahead of myself: the antecedents of this little trip will be of interest to you as they pertain directly to your paintings.

The packet you dispatched last week was delivered to me four days ago – how lucky we are that a full set of illustrations had been readied by Miss Ellen Penrose (and I must say the illustrations are, if I may so, quite surprisingly competent). The packet could not have arrived at a better time – or so I thought – for it had been arranged, as you will remember, that Ah-med would fetch me from the hotel the very next day, exactly one week having passed since my last visit to the Pearl River Nursery. My desire to see Mr Chan being still undiminished it was with the greatest eagerness that I prepared myself for Ah-med’s arrival. Having packed your pictures in a bag, I told Mr Markwick that I was expecting a visitor and was to be informed as soon as he appeared. Then I ensconced myself in my room and remained there for the next several hours.

The time was not spent unprofitably for I was able to make a start on Jacqua’s torso – and yet you cannot imagine how disappointed I was, Puggly dear, when Ah-med failed to appear! I was quite stricken -but annoyed as well, and when the chapel clock struck six I decided I would wait no longer. I sought out Jacqua and told him I was determined to go to Fa-Tee on my own, the very next morning, in a hired boat. To my great delight he offered (as I had rather hoped he might) to accompany me and even said he would arrange for a boat.

So the next morning we set off, and you cannot conceive, my dear Puggly, how expectant I was. All the circumstances seemed exceedingly propitious: it was a fine day and the boat was not a horrid little coracle, managed by harpies, but a sampan rowed by a kindly old boatman. I own it was a little narrow, which meant that Jacqua and I had to sit side by side, and were often compelled to hold on to each other because of the lurchings of the vessel. But this only added to the interest of the journey so we decided to prolong it a bit by going a little way downriver. It was not till we were well past the usual landmarks – the Shamian sandbank, the Dutch Fort, the execution grounds – that it came to our attention that a huge crowd had gathered along the shore, in order to goggle at some kind of tamasha that was being staged upon a barge.

On approaching a little closer it became evident that the spectacle consisted of a man who had been put on public display, with a huge wooden pillory around his neck. Jacqua spoke to some passing boatmen and learnt that this man stood accused of being a confederate of the wretched Mr Innes: this was his punishment for conniving to smuggle opium into the city. The boatman said he might even be beheaded if Mr Innes did not leave the city!

We assumed of course that the man was a Thug or a Dacoit, much like Innes himself – so you will understand, Puggly dear, the extent of my horror when we came close enough to get a good look at the accused man. For the man was none other than Punhyqua, the eminent Hongist and connoisseur of flowers and gardens!

It was so distressing to see him thus, with a huge board around his neck and thousands of people leering at him that I yearned to be whisked away to Fa-Tee – but this too proved impossible. Scarcely had we turned around, to head towards Fa-Tee, when we came to a barrier where we were told that new rules had been put in effect and we could proceed no further without a special chop. So we turned back, and on returning to Markwick’s I discovered that the journey would have been wasted anyway – for in the meanwhile Ah-med had come to the hotel to inform me that Mr Chan had left town on urgent business!

Since that time I have seen no further trace of Ah-med and nor have I received any word from Mr Chan – but this is not surprising perhaps for the atmosphere in Fanqui-town has become quite alarmingly charged. Mr Innes still refuses to leave and every day there are rumours of new sanctions and threats against him. One afternoon, placards were posted all around the Creek Factory, in Chinese and in English. I brought one away, as a keepsake, and I cannot resist the temptation to copy the words, for I know they will interest you:

‘On the third of this month the foreign merchant Innes, with a daring disregard of the laws, clandestinely brought opium up to Canton in a boat which was seized by the government. He openly defies the imperial mandates and displays the most supreme contempt for his own reputation. His conduct merits universal outrage. We decline therefore to do any more business with him and shall not suffer him to dwell in our buildings: we accordingly placard our resolve in the most explicit manner, that every reasonable man may be informed of it and take timely warning.’

Is it not quite the most ominous pronouncement? But such a man is Mr Innes that even this has made no impression on him.

The strangest part of the whole affair, says Zadig Bey, is that Mr Innes cannot have been acting alone – he must have had accomplices and it is quite possible that he would be able to lighten his burden of guilt if he were to spread the blame. But this he has resolutely refused to do, choosing instead to profess complete innocence of all the charges levelled against him (even though he was caught in the very act of unloading the opium on his own doorstep!). But Mr Innes claims the drug was put on his boat by the Chinese customs people (which is of course perfectly preposterous) and he will not accept the slightest measure of blame. This has put the Hongists in a terrible quandary. They have held many meetings and issued innumerable notices but to no avail, and they are now at their wits’ end.

But a resolution may yet be reached. Zadig Bey has heard from his friend, Mr Moddie, that the Hongists have now requested a secret meeting with the Committee: they want Mr Innes to be present so they can confront him directly with their charges. They are hoping perhaps to shame the Chamber of Commerce into acting against Mr Innes – and it is most earnestly to be desired that something comes of it, my dear Puggle-minx, for in the interim the traffic on the river has dwindled to nothing and I do not know how or when I will find a boat to carry this letter.

*

Bahram had thought that the Committee’s special session would be held in the Great Hall, on the ground floor of the Chamber’s premises. But on presenting himself there he learnt that the venue had been changed, at the express request of the Co-Hong merchants: in view of the confidential nature of the proceedings they had asked that it be moved to more sequestered surroundings. Mr Lindsay had then decided to hold it in the President’s personal salon, on the third storey – this floor contained several private offices and meeting rooms and was closed to all but the President, the Committee and a few members of the Chamber’s staff.

As he was approaching the salon, Bahram heard a raised voice, echoing out of the salon: ‘No sir, I will not leave Canton and you cannot make me do it! Let me remind you that I am not a member of this Chamber. I am a free man, sir, and I obey no mortal voice. You would do well to bear that in mind.’

It was Innes, and the sound of his voice made Bahram check his stride.

Bahram had for days been dreading the thought of coming face-to-face with either of the two men who had it in their power to implicate him in the Creek Factory affair: Allow and Innes. But Allow had providentially disappeared – Vico had heard a rumour that he had fled the country – and as for Innes, this was the first time, after that day, that he and Bahram would be in the same room. Before stepping inside Bahram took a deep breath.

Charles King was speaking now: ‘Mr Innes, if you value the freedom you boast of, then you must accept the consequences of your own actions. Do you not see what your exploits have led to? Do you not understand that you have brought disaster upon Punhyqua – and indeed on all of us?’

The President’s salon was a large, well-appointed room, with windows that commanded fine views of White Swan Lake and the North River. On the marble mantelpiece stood two magnificent Ming vases, and between them, facing each other, a pair of lacquered snuff-boxes. The members of the Committee had gathered at the far end of the room, around the mantelpiece: they were all seated, except for William Jardine, who was standing with his back to the mantel. Although Mr Lindsay held the title of President, it was clear from Jardine’s attitude of command that it was he who would be presiding over the proceedings. A hint of a smile appeared on his smooth face now as he listened to the exchange between Innes and King.

‘Punhyqua’s plight cannot be pinned on me,’ cried Innes. ‘It is the mandarins who are to blame. You cannot hold me responsible for their idiocy.’

Everybody was so absorbed in the argument that only Dent seemed to notice Bahram’s entry. He greeted him with a brisk nod and gestured to him to take the empty chair between himself and Mr Slade.

As he was sitting down Bahram heard Jardine intervene, in his usual placid, equable tones: ‘Well Charles, you must admit that Innes has the right of it there. The Celestials have made a great muddle of it all, as always.’

‘But sir,’ responded King, ‘the present situation has arisen solely because of Mr Innes’s actions. It is in his power to resolve it – all he has to do is to leave. Considering the suffering and inconvenience his presence is causing surely it is only reasonable that he should depart immediately?’

This drew a forceful response from Mr Slade who had been stirring restlessly in his seat. ‘No! Mr Innes’s fate is not the only thing that is at stake here. There is a more important principle at issue and it has to do with the powers of this Chamber. Under no circumstances can this Chamber be allowed to dictate to any free merchant – that would be an intolerable encroachment upon our liberties.’

Dent had been nodding vigorously as Slade was speaking and now he spoke up too: ‘Let me be perfectly clear: if the Chamber attempts to set itself up as a shadow government then I shall be the first to resign from it. This body was established to facilitate trade and commerce. It has no jurisdiction over us and it is of the utmost importance that this principle be preserved. Or else the Celestials will attempt at every turn to use the Chamber to bend us to their will. This is clearly why they have asked to meet us today – and in my opinion that gives us a very good reason to stand together in support of Mr Innes.’

‘Support Innes?’ A note of disbelief had entered Charles King’s voice now. ‘A crime has been committed and we are to support the perpetrator? In the name of freedom?’

‘But nonetheless, Charles,’ said Jardine calmly, ‘Dent is right. The Chamber does not have jurisdiction over any of us.’

Charles King raised his hands to his temples. ‘Let me remind you, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘of what is at stake here: it is Punhyqua’s head. He has been a good friend to all of us and his colleagues of the Co-Hong are coming here to plead for his life. Are we going to turn them away on the grounds of a legalism?’

‘Oh please!’ retorted Slade. ‘Have the goodness to spare us these Bulgarian melodramas! If you were not so wet behind the ears it would be evident to you that there are more…’

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen!’ Jardine broke in before Slade could finish. ‘I must appeal to you to restrain yourselves. We may have our differences on this matter but this is surely not the time or place to air them.’

As he was speaking a steward had come in to whisper in his ear. Jardine gave him a nod before turning back to the others. ‘I have just been informed that the Hongists have arrived. Before they are shown in I would like to remind you that no matter what our personal opinions, it is Mr Lindsay who must speak on our behalf – he and no one else. I take it this is clearly understood?’

Jardine’s gaze swept around the room and came finally to rest on Charles King.

‘Oh, is that how it is to be then?’ said King, with an angry glint in his eye. ‘You have already settled the matter between you?’

‘And what if we have?’ said Jardine calmly. ‘Mr Lindsay is the President. It is his prerogative to speak on behalf of the Chamber.’

Mr King made a gesture of disgust. ‘Very well then. Let us be done with this charade. Let Mr Lindsay say what he will.’

A steward entered now to announce the arrival of the Co-Hong merchants and everyone present rose to their feet. The delegation consisted of four merchants, led by the seniormost member of the guild, Howqua. All of them were wearing their customary formal regalia, with buttons, panels and tassels of rank displayed prominently on their robes and hats.

At any other time there would have been a great deal of chin-chinning between the Hongists and the fanquis but today, as if in deference to the gravity of the situation, the members of the delegation stood at the door, wearing severe, unwavering expressions, while their servants rearranged the seating in the salon, placing four chairs side-by-side, in a row, facing the rest. Then the magnates marched straight in and seated themselves in stiffly formal attitudes, with their hands lying invisible on their laps. Their agitation was apparent only in the occasional fluttering of their sleeves.

Now, without any of the usual preambles and speech-making, a linkister stepped up to Mr Lindsay and handed him a roll of paper. When the seal was broken, the writing inside was discovered to be in Chinese – but Mr Fearon, the Chamber’s translator, was at hand and he took the scroll off to an anteroom to make of it what he could.

In his absence, which lasted a good half-hour, very little was said: the elaborate refreshments that had been prepared for the visitors – syllabubs, cakes, pies and sherbets – were waved away by the Co-Hong merchants who sat immobile all the while, looking directly ahead. Only Charles King attempted to make conversation but such was the severity of the Hongists’ expressions that he too was quickly quelled.

Every man in the room could remember exchanging toasts and gossip with the magnates of the Co-Hong, at innumerable banquets, garden parties and boat-trips. Everyone in that room was fluent in pidgin and they had all, on occasion, used that tongue to discuss things they would not have talked about with their own wives – their lovers, their horoscopes, their digestions and their finances. But now no one said a word.

Sitting on the left was the thin, ascetic Howqua: it was he who had presented Bahram with his beloved desk. On the extreme right was Mowqua, who had once entrusted Bahram with the job of purchasing pearls for his daughter’s wedding; in the centre, was Moheiqua, a man so trustworthy that he had been known to refund the cost of an entire shipment of tea because a single chest had been found to be substandard.

The ties of trust and goodwill that bound the Hongists to the fanquis were all the stronger for having been forged across apparently unbridgeable gaps of language, loyalty and belonging: but now, even though the memory of those bonds was vitally alive in everyone present, no trace of it was visible in the faces that confronted each other across the room.

When Mr Fearon returned, the air seemed to crackle in anticipation of his report. Addressing himself to Mr Lindsay, the translator began by saying: ‘I fear I have not been able to translate the communication in its entirety, sir, but I will endeavour to provide the gist. Fortunately it repeats some parts of the Co-Hong’s earlier communications with us.’

‘Please proceed, Mr Fearon. You have our full attention.’

Mr Fearon began to read from his notes: ‘ “We, the merchants of the Co-Hong, have again and again sent to you gentlemen copies of the laws and edicts that regulate our trade in Canton. But you, gentlemen, thinking them of no importance, have cast them aside without giving them the least attention. A seizure has recently been made by the government of some opium which Mr Innes was endeavouring to smuggle into the city. In consequence of this one of our colleagues has been sentenced to the punishment of publicly wearing the cangue. You, gentlemen, have all seen or heard of this.” ’

The words sent a shiver through Bahram: the sight of Punhyqua, labouring under the weight of the cangue, still festered in his eyes. How many palms had Punhyqua greased over the years? How many beaks had he wetted? Over his lifetime he had probably distributed millions of taels amongst the province’s officials; even the men who had come to arrest him had probably profited from his largesse at some time or another. And yet, it had not served to prevent his arrest.

Across the room Mr Fearon was still reading: ‘ “We have established hongs for trading with you, gentlemen, in the hope of making a little money, and to ensure that all things go on peacefully and to our mutual advantage. But foreigners, by smuggling opium, have constantly involved us in trouble. Ask yourselves, gentlemen, whether in our places you would be at ease? There are surely some reasonable men among you. Trade has been suspended and now we are forced to demand some new conditions before reopening it, being determined no longer to suffer for the misdeeds of others. Hereafter, if any foreigner should attempt to smuggle opium, or any other contraband article into the factories, we shall immediately petition the government that such may be dealt with according to law, and that the offenders may be turned out of their lodgings. Furthermore, the foreign merchant, Mr Innes, being a man who clandestinely smuggles opium into Canton, His Excellency the Governor has directed, by edict, that he be driven out of this city.” ’

Inadvertently Bahram’s eyes strayed towards Innes, who was looking out of the window with an oddly stricken expression on his face. The sight inspired a rush of sympathy in Bahram: if not for this man’s silence he knew that he too might now be facing the prospect of a permanent exile from Canton.

What would it mean, never to see the Maidan again? To be forever banned from setting foot in China? He realized now, as never before, that this place had been an essential part of his life, and not just for reasons of business: it was here, in Canton, that he had always felt most alive – it was here that he had learnt to live. Without the escape and refuge of Fanqui-town he would have been forever a prisoner in the Mistrie mansion; he would have been a man of no account, a failure, despised as a poor relative. It was China that had spared him that fate; it was Canton that had given him wealth, friends, social standing, a son; it was this city that had given him such knowledge as he would ever have of love and carnal pleasure. If not for Canton he would have lived his life like a man without a shadow.

He understood now why Innes was so insistent in professing his innocence: in this lay his only hope of being able to return to China, to Canton – to implicate others, as he could so easily have done, would have required an acknowledgement of guilt and thus an acceptance of permanent exile.

Across the room, Mr Fearon’s voice rose: ‘ “In case Innes perversely refuses to leave, we must pull down the building in which he lives, so that he may have no roof above his head. No foreigner must give him shelter, lest he himself become involved in trouble. We have to request that you circulate this amongst you and send it to your newspapers for publication. Know that all this is in consequence of an edict we have received from the Governor, in which he has threatened that all of us, merchants of the Co-Hong, shall wear the cangue unless Innes leaves Canton immediately. Time is short. If you do not act to expel Innes from the city the Governor is certain to carry out his threat.” ’

Here Mr Fearon stopped, and an uncomfortable silence descended upon the room.

It was Innes who broke it. ‘Let me say once again, I am not guilty – or perhaps I should say rather that I am no more guilty than anyone else in this room, including these fine gentlemen of the Co-Hong. I see no reason why I alone should bear the blame for a situation and circumstance that has come about through the mutual consent and connivance of all of us. I will not be made a scapegoat and I will not leave to suit anyone’s convenience. And nor is there anything the Chamber can do about it. You had better explain that, Mr Lindsay.’

Many pairs of eyes turned towards the President of the Chamber who now rose to address the Hongists.

‘I would be grateful, Mr Fearon, if you would inform our esteemed friends and colleagues of the Co-Hong that the Chamber is powerless in this matter. As it happens Mr Innes is not even a member of this body: he is here today at my express invitation, but it must be noted that the Chamber has no jurisdiction over him. Mr Innes protests his innocence of the charges levelled against him. As a British subject he enjoys certain freedoms and we cannot make him leave the city against his will.’

Bahram smiled to himself as he listened: the arguments were marvellously simple yet irrefutable. Really, there was no language like English for turning lies into legalisms.

Scanning the room, Bahram saw that he was not the only one to be favourably impressed: Mr Lindsay’s rejoinder had met with widespread approval among the fanquis. But on the other side of the room, as the import of Lindsay’s words sank in, expressions of appalled disbelief began to appear on the faces of the Co-Hong merchants. They held a hurried consultation among themselves and then whispered again to the linkisters, who, in turn, had a brief palaver with Mr Fearon.

‘Yes, Mr Fearon?’

‘Sir, this is what I have been instructed to convey: “By the obstinate defiance of this one man, Innes, the whole foreign trade is involved in difficulties, the consequences of which may be truly great. We earnestly beg of you gentlemen to endeavour, by reasonable arguments, to make Innes leave Canton today. We have known each other for many years; you have done business not only with us, but also with our fathers and grandfathers. Should we be obliged to wear the cangue our reputations will be indelibly seared. With tainted characters, how shall we ever again be able to carry on the trade, either with natives or with foreign merchants? Ask yourselves, in the name of our long friendship…” ’

Here the translator’s rendition was cut short by Innes who jumped noisily to his feet. ‘I have had enough of this!’ he cried. ‘I will not be defamed by a caffle of yellow-bellied heathens. They point their fingers at me, and yet heaven knows that they themselves have no equals in sinfulness and venery. They’ve slummed the gorger out of us at every turn; if they could put the squeeze on us this minute they’d do it in the twinkling of a bedpost. Why, I would not cross the room to spare them the cangue! It will only be a foretaste of the fate that awaits them in the afterworld.’

Innes’s tone was so expressive that his words needed no translation; nor did the Co-Hong’s delegation ask for any – Innes’s defiance was self-evident.

One by one the Hongists rose to their feet, bringing the meeting to an abrupt end. The one exception was Howqua: at his advanced age he was too infirm to rise quickly from his chair. As his retainers were helping him up, he glanced at some of his fanqui friends, Bahram among them. On his face was an expression of mingled bewilderment and disbelief: his eyes seemed to ask how this situation could possibly have arisen.

There was something about the old man’s uncomprehending regard that quieted even Innes. The foreign merchants stood in silence as the delegation withdrew.

They were not long gone when Innes turned upon the others: ‘Oh look at all of you, sitting there with long faces while the stench of your hypocrisy fills this room! You who preside over the Sodom of our age dare to look at me as though I were the sinner! Between the lot of you there is no sin left uncommitted, no commandment unbroken – your every act is shameful in the eyes of the Lord. Gluttony, adultery, sodomy, thievery – what is exempt? I have only to look at your faces to know why the Lord willed me to bring those boats into this city – it was to hasten the destruction of this city of sin. If that purpose has been advanced then I can only be glad of it. And if my continuing presence brings the hour of retribution any closer, why then, I would consider it my duty to remain.’

He paused to look around the room and then spat on the floor. ‘There’s not one amongst you doesn’t know that in comparison to all of you fine fucking gentlemen, I am an innocent – an honest man. And that, let me tell you, gentlemen, is the only reason why I might choose to leave Canton: it’s because there’s not one amongst you deserves to keep company with James Innes.’

*

December 12

I cannot believe, dearest Puggly, that this letter has been sitting helplessly on my desk for so many days. But so indeed it has, because I have not been able to find a boat to take it to Hong Kong. Thanks to Mr Innes, who has still to leave Canton, the Trade is at a complete standstill.

But the strange thing, Pugglie-cherie, is that this has been a marvellously happy time for me – so much so that I would not be in the least sorry if the Trade were to remain frozen for ever! For I have never found so much joy in painting as I have had in these last few days. Jacqua comes to sit for me whenever he can, and I confess that I do not always work as speedily as I might – not only because his company is pleasing but also because it is exceedingly instructive. You may be surprised to learn that he was not in the least offended to see himself being depicted with an unclothed torso. Indeed he was kind enough to rectify and even embellish my efforts – which is how I discovered that he, and many other young apprentices at the studio, have made a deep study of anatomical painting. This is at the insistence of Lamqua, who goes frequently to Dr Parker’s hospital, to paint patients who have undergone operations there. These paintings of Lamqua’s are quite extraordinary -I have never in my life seen anything like them. They are of people with amputated arms and legs, and also of some who are suffering from dreadful diseases – and the miracle of it is that they are not in the least ghoulish or prurient, even though they are painstakingly detailed and unrelentingly accurate. I am sure I myself would swoon dead away if I had to gaze upon such injuries and lesions for any length of time (but I am, as you know, just a little bit squeamish). Yet Lamqua’s pictures are so wonderfully sympathetic that I am inclined to think that to be painted by him is perhaps even a part of the patients’ cure. He paints the human body as if mutilation and imperfection were not the exception but the rule, proof of life itself. It is a way of looking at anatomy that could never be learnt in a morgue or through the dissection of corpses – for the flesh is never without life nor the other way around.

Jacqua too has imbibed something of this unflinching yet tender regard for the body, and when he corrects me I sometimes feel that he is reproving me – for he laughs and says that I paint human flesh as a tiger might, as though it were food. This has made me think anew about the del Sarto torso on my canvas: I see that its flaws lie exactly in the perfection of the flesh, which renders nothing of the spirit of the subject and seems indeed to be utterly at odds with it.

But it is all to the good, for I do not in the least mind being criticized by Jacqua: it gives me a reason to start all over again and sometimes Jacqua will even allow me to sketch from life – which is, I find, a great deal more rewarding than trying to remember a painting which I have never even seen, except in reproduction.

But that is not all, mia cara Pugglazon. I have also received my first commission! And from whom, you might ask? Well, it is none other than Mr King, my young Gericault! He came up to me in the Maidan some days ago and said that he is often unoccupied nowadays because of the stoppage in Trade, so would I like to do his portrait while he has the time to sit for it? Of course I said yes, and I have spent several afternoons in the American Factory, where he has his lodgings.

Although he has been kind to me, Mr King is, I think, a reserved, even reticent man. We did not speak much at first, but then a very curious thing happened. One day I came across Mr Slade in the Maidan and he asked me if it was true that I was painting a portrait of Mr King. I said it was indeed true, so then he proceeded to harangue me, demanding to know whether I was not ashamed to associate with such a man – a creature of perverse and unnatural inclinations, who consorted with China-men and took their side against his own kind. I said I knew nothing about all that but Mr King had always treated me kindly, and I liked him very much. Mr Slade went away, harrumphing loudly, but I was greatly shaken and I could not refrain from mentioning this peculiar encounter to Mr King. To my surprise he laughed, a little scornfully, and owned that he was not entirely surprised. Mr Slade is exceedingly peculiar, he says: although his behaviour towards Mr King is often insulting in public, in private he often besieges him with protestations of Friendship – he has even been known to ask the barber for a lock of his hair! Mr Slade sees depravity and desire everywhere he looks, says Mr King, except within himself, which is where they principally have their seat. That a man of this sort, filled with rage and shallow invective, should command a following in Fanqui-town is a cause for despair, says Mr King.

Detestable as he is, I feel I should thank Mr Slade for breaking the ice between Mr King and myself. For Mr King speaks to me now with such a frankness that I feel I am well on the way to becoming his confidant (indeed he has asked me to call him Charlie!). And I am persuaded, Puggly dear, that he is tormented by all that is happening here! He thinks the foreign merchants are entirely to blame for the present Situation: opium has made them so rich they cannot conceive of managing without it; they do not understand that it has become impossible for the Chinese to continue to import it because thousands, maybe millions of people here have become slaves to it – monks, generals, housewives, soldiers, mandarins, students. Even more dangerous than the drug, says Charlie, is the Corruption that comes with it, for hundreds of officials are paid bribes in order to ensure the continuance of the trade. It has become a matter of life and death, Charlie says, because over the last thirty years the export of opium to China has increased tenfold. If the Chinese do not stop the inflow of opium their country will be eaten away from within – and in his darkest moments he thinks that this is exactly what the foreigners want, even though they speak endlessly of bringing Freedom and Religion to China. When confronted with evidence of their smuggling, they resort to the most absurd subterfuges, thinking the Chinese will be deceived and they never are. He fears that this latest affair, concerning Mr Innes, has brought things to such a pass that an Insurrection or an Uprising may well break out (and this is not excessive, Puggly dear, for I have asked Jacqua about it and he says it is perfectly true. He has friends who are positively chafing to set fire to the house Mr Innes lives in – they refrain from doing so only out of fear of the local constabulary).

… and oh dear Puggly, perhaps I should not have written those last lines, for even as I am sitting here, writing, I can see from my desk that another great Commotion is getting under way in the Maidan. I see bannermen trooping in, accompanied by gongs and pennants and fireworks. They have stationed themselves around the American flag, which is at the very centre of the Maidan, and they are driving people back with the butts of their spears, creating a kind of clearing. A crowd has begun to gather around them, and now more soldiers have appeared, a whole troop of them, and some mandarins too, in sedan chairs. I can scarcely believe it, but they have brought an apparatus with them! It looks exactly like the one I saw at the execution grounds – a sort of wooden cross.

My heart has risen to my throat, dear Puggly… I can write no more

…

*

Neel was walking out of the Danish Hong, where he had gone to deliver a letter, when he was halted by an unexpected sound: a synchronized thudding of feet, accompanied by drums, gongs and exploding firecrackers.

Drawing abreast of the Danish Factory’s cattle pen, Neel waited to see what would happen. A minute later a column of troops burst out of the mouth of Old China Street. Their rhythmically stamping feet sent a cloud of dust spiralling into the air as they trotted towards the tall pole that bore the American flag.

As it happened the flag was hoisted not in front of the American but the Swedish Factory for it was in that compound that the residence of the American Consul was located. Between the Danish Hong, which was at the far end of the enclave, and the Swedish, which was in the middle, lay six other factories: the Spanish, the French, the Mingqua, the American, the Paoushun and the Imperial Hong. It took only a few minutes for the sound of drums, gongs and firecrackers to penetrate to the interior of those factories. Then all at once, traders, agents, shroffs and merchants came pouring out.

It was ten in the morning, the busiest time of day in Fanqui-town. The early ferry-boats from Whampoa had arrived a couple of hours before, bringing in the usual contingent of sailors on shore leave. On reaching the enclave the lascars and lime-juicers had gone, as was their custom, straight to the shamshoo-shacks of Hog Lane, so as to get scammered as quickly as possible. Now, as word of the troop’s arrival spread, they came running out to see what was under way. Neel could tell that many of them had taken on full loads of the stagger-juice; some were reeling and some were leaning heavily on the shoulders of their shipmates.

With the crowd swelling fast it took Neel a good few minutes to push his way through to the American flagpole, where a space had been cleared and a tent erected: a mandarin, ceremonially robed, was seated inside, with assistants hovering at his elbow. A few yards away, right under the flag, a squad of soldiers was nailing together a strange wooden apparatus.

Now again there was an outburst of gongs and conches and the crowd parted to admit another column of troops. They were carrying a chair that was attached to two long shoulder-poles. Tethered to this device was a man in an open tunic, bareheaded, with his hands tied behind his back. He was thrashing about, flinging his head from one side to another.

As the crowd churned around him, Neel picked up snatches of an exchange in an eastern dialect of Bengali.

Haramzadatake gola-tipa mairra dibo naki?… Are they going to throttle the bastard?

Ta noyto ki? Dekchis ni, bokachodata kemni kaippa uthtase… What else? Look how the fucker’s shivering…

It turned out that Neel was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with two lascars from Khulna, a tindal and a classy. The tindal had a bottle in his hand: delighted to have come across a fellow Bengali, he put his arm around Neel’s neck and held the bottle to his lips. Here, have a little sip, won’t do you any harm…

Neel tried to push the bottle away but this only made the two lascars more insistent. The spirit trickled past his lips and left a burning trail behind it as it percolated through his body: he knew from the taste that the liquor had been especially doctored to produce a quick and powerful effect. Opening his mouth, he stuck out his seared tongue, fanning it with his hand. This hugely amused the two lascars, who put the bottle to his lips again. This time Neel’s resistance was much more feeble: the heat of the shamshoo had risen from his stomach to his head now, and he too was suffused with a comradely warmth. They were good fellows these two, with their cheerful rustic accents; it was wonderfully comforting to speak Bengali with these friendly strangers. He flung his arms around their shoulders, and they stood three abreast, swaying slightly on their feet as they watched the preparations for the execution.

The shamshoo had made the lascars garrulous and Neel soon learnt that they were both employed on the Orwell, an East India Company ship that was presently lying at anchor in Whampoa. Their last voyage had been bedevilled by bad weather and they had escaped to Canton at the earliest opportunity, hoping to put it out of their minds.

The slurred voices of the lascars’ limey shipmates could be heard over the hum of the crowd.

‘… look at old Creepin Jesus over there…’

‘… they’s never going to nail him to no cross!’

‘… bleedin blasphemy is what I call it…’

The movements of the condemned man, in the meanwhile, had grown even more frenzied than before. His head was the only part of his body that was not lashed to the chair and his unbraided pigtail was whipping from side to side; thick strands of hair were stuck to his face, glued fast by the drool that was dribbling from his mouth. Now, at a word from the presiding official, an attendant opened a box and took out a pipe.

‘Fuckinell! A nartichoke ripe?’

‘… and I’ll be blowed if it in’t yong that’s going into it…’

‘Opium? But in’that why he’s gettin the horse’s nightcap though?’

The prisoner had caught sight of the pipe too now, and his whole body was straining towards it, the muscles of his face corkscrewing around his open, drooling mouth. As the pipe was put to his lips a silence descended on the crowd; the sound of his thirsty sucking was clearly audible. He closed his eyes, holding the smoke in his lungs, and then, breathing it out, he fastened his lips on the pipe again.

The eerie quiet was dispelled by an indignant cry: ‘Sir, on behalf of my fellow Americans, I must protest…’

Turning his head, Neel saw that three gentlemen, attired in jackets and hats, were approaching the mandarin in the tent. Their words were lost in the ensuing hubbub, but it was clear that the exchange between the mandarins and the Americans was a heated one and it was lustily cheered by the sailors.

‘… that’s the ticket, mate! Donchyoo stand for it…’

‘… you tell’im – put the squeak in his nibs…’

‘… in’t he ever so pleased with his little self?’

The dispute ended with the three Americans marching over to the flagpole and hauling down the flag. Then one of them turned to the crowd and began to shout.

‘Do you see what is happening here, men? It is an outrage the like of which has never been seen in the history of this enclave! They are planning to stage an execution right under our flags! The intent is perfectly clear – they are pinning the blame for this man’s death upon us. They are accusing us of being his accomplices! Nor is that all. By doing this here, in the Square, they are linking our flags with smuggling and drug running. These long-tailed savages are accusing us – the United States! England! – of villainy and crime! What do you say to that, men? Are you going to stand for it? Are you going to allow them to desecrate our flags?’

‘… not on yer life…’

‘… if it’s a bull-and-cow they want, they can’ave it…’

‘… got a porridge-popper waitin for whoever wants it…’

While the voices in the crowd were getting louder, the condemned man had fallen so quiet that he appeared to have become oblivious to his fate: his head had slumped on to his shoulders and he seemed to have lost himself in a dream. When two soldiers untied his bindings and pulled him to his feet, he rose without protest and went stumbling towards the apparatus that had been erected for his execution. He was almost there when he tipped his head back to look at it, as if for the first time. A choked cry bubbled up in his throat and his knees buckled.

‘… don’t he look like a dog’s dinner…?’

‘… like a birchbroom in a fit…’

The voices were right behind Neel. Turning to look, he saw a burly seaman with an empty bottle in one hand. Slowly the man drew his arm back and then the bottle went curling over the crowd. It exploded near the soldiers, who spun around to face the crowd, arms at the ready. Their raised weapons elicited a howl from the sailors. ‘Fucking peelers!’

The shouts of the two lascars were loud in Neel’s ears: banchodgulake maar, maar…!

Neel too was shouting obscenities now. His voice was no longer just his own; it was the instrument of a multitude, of all these men around him, these strangers who had become brothers – there was no difference between his voice and theirs, they had joined together and the chorus was speaking to him, telling him to pick up the stone that was lying at his feet, urging him to throw it, as the others were doing – and there it was, one amongst a hailstorm of stones and bottles, flying across the Maidan, hitting the soldiers on their helmeted heads, raining down on the mandarin in his tent. They were running now, taking the prisoner with them; the mandarin was fleeing too, sheltering behind the soldiers’ upraised weapons.

Elated by their victory the sailors began to laugh. ‘I say, Bill, we don’t get such a lark as this every day!’

Having driven the execution party away, the mob now fell upon the things the soldiers had left behind – the wooden cross, the tent, the table and the chairs – and smashed them all to bits. Then they piled the remnants together, poured shamshoo on them and set the heap alight. As the flames went up, a sailor ripped off his banyan and threw it upon the bonfire. Another, egged on by his shipmates, tore off his trowsers and added it to the flames. A rhythmic clapping began, urging the half-naked sailors to dance.

The triumph of foiling the execution was no less intoxicating than the liquor, the flames, and the howling voices. Neel was so absorbed in the celebration that he could not understand why his new-found lascar friends had suddenly fallen silent. Even less was he prepared for it when one of them tugged at his elbow and whispered: palao bhai, jaldi… Run! Get away!

Why?

Look over there: it’s a mob… of Chinese… coming this way…

A moment later a shower of stones came pelting down. One of them struck Neel on his shoulder, knocking him to the ground. Raising his head from the dust he saw that dozens, maybe hundreds, of townsmen had come pouring into the Maidan: they were tearing up the fences that surrounded the enclave’s gardens, arming themselves with uprooted posts and palisades. Then he caught a glimpse of some half-dozen men running in his direction with upraised staves. Scrambling to his feet he raced towards the Fungtai Hong; he could hear footsteps pounding behind him and was grateful, for once, that the enclave was so small – the entrance was only a few paces from where he had fallen.

He could see the doors being pulled shut as he ran towards them. He did not have the breath to call out but someone recognized him, and held a door open, beckoning, gesturing, shouting: Bhago munshiji bhago! Run! Run!

Just as he was about to go through something struck him hard on the temple. He staggered in and collapsed on the floor.

He came to consciousness in his cubicle, on his bed. His head was throbbing, from the shamshoo as well as the blow. He opened his eyes to find Vico peering at him, with a candle.

Munshiji? How are you feeling?

Terrible.

His head began to pound when he tried to sit up. He fell back against his pillow.

What time is it?

Past seven at night. You were out for all of it, munshiji.

All of what?

The riot. They almost broke in, you know. They attacked the factories with battering rams.

Was anyone killed?

No. I don’t think so. But it could have happened. Some of the sahibs had even brought out their guns. Can you imagine what would have happened if they’d shot at the crowd? Fortunately the police arrived before they could open fire. They put a quick end to it – cleared everyone out of the Maidan in a matter of minutes. And then, just as it was all settling down who should arrive?

Who?

Captain Elliott, the British Representative. He got word of the trouble somehow and came hurrying down from Macau with a team of sepoys and lascars. If the mob had still been in the Maidan his men would probably have opened fire. Who knows what would have happened then? Luckily it was all over by that time.

So what did he do, Captain Elliott?

He called a meeting and gave a speech, what else? He said the situation was getting out of control and that he was going to see to it personally that British boats were no longer used to bring opium into Canton.

Oh?

Sitting up slowly, Neel put a hand to his head and found that a bandage had been wrapped around it.

And Sethji? Is he all right?

Yes. He’s fine. He’s gone to the Club to have dinner with Mr Dent and Mr Slade. Everything’s quiet now, the trouble’s over. Except for the uprooted fences and broken glass in the Maidan, you wouldn’t know it had happened.

*

‘It is going exactly as I had predicted,’ said Dent gloomily, looking at his plate. ‘Instead of protecting our liberties Captain Elliott intends to join hands with the mandarins to deprive us of them. After his speech of today there can be no doubt of it; none at all.’

A steward had appeared at Dent’s elbow as he was speaking, bearing a tray of Yorkshire pudding: Bahram was no lover of this concoction but it did not escape his notice that the version being offered today was quite different from the dining room’s usual soggy staple – it was steaming hot and freshly risen.

Bahram had never known the Club’s staff to be as solicitious as they had been that evening: it was as if they were trying to make amends for the chaos of the day. Earlier, one of the stewards had come up to him and whispered in his ear: knowing of his fondness for Macahnese food he had offered him items that were not usually served in the Club – crisp fritters of bacalhau, char-grilled octopus and roast-duck rice. Bahram had accepted gladly but now that the rice was in front of him, topped with succulent slices of mahogany-coloured duck, he found he had lost interest in it.

Slade’s appetite, on the other hand, seemed only to have been whetted by the riot: having already wolfed down an enormous helping of roast beef, he now helped himself to some more.

‘It is unconscionable, I tell you! Completely and utterly unconscionable that Captain Elliott should take it upon himself to issue these fiats. Why, it seems to be his intention to offer himself to the Celestials as the chief officer of their police and customs!’

‘Shocking, is it not,’ said Dent, ‘that he should direct his strictures specifically at British traders?’

‘It is but proof of his ignorance of the situation in China,’ said Slade. ‘He seems to be unaware that this so-called system of “smuggling” was pioneered by the Americans. Was it not a Boston schooner, the Coral, that first sent her boats upriver with opium?’

‘So indeed it was!’

‘And in any case Captain Elliott has no legal authority to issue extravagant pronouncements on our behalf. There has never been any express diplomatic convention between England and China. Ergo he is not invested with any consular powers. He is assuming powers he does not possess.’

Dent nodded vigorously. ‘It is appalling that a man whose salary we pay should take it upon himself to impose Celestial misrule upon free men.’

Bahram happened to be facing a window and he noticed now that several brightly illuminated flower-boats had appeared on the misted waters of White Swan Lake; one passed close enough that he could see men lounging on pillows and girls plucking at stringed instruments. It was as if the turmoil of the day had never happened; as though it were all a dream.

Even at the time, as the events were unfolding under his own window, Bahram had found it hard to believe that these things were really happening: that a gibbet was being erected in the Maidan; that some poor wretch was to be executed within sight of his daftar. The semblance of unreality had grown even more acute when the condemned man was carried in. At one point, while twisting and writhing in his chair, the man had turned his head in the direction of the Fungtai Hong. Very little was visible of his face because of the hair that was matted on it, but Bahram had noticed that his eyes were wide open and seemed almost to be staring at him. The sight had shaken him and he had stepped away from the window. When he returned, the melee was already under way and the execution party had disappeared.

‘What happened to that fellow?’ Bahram said suddenly, interrupting Slade. ‘The one they were going to strangle? Was he let off?’

‘Oh no,’ said Slade. ‘I believe his reprieve lasted only an hour or two. He was taken to the execution grounds and quickly dispatched.’

‘Sorry little wretch,’ said Dent, ‘he was nothing but a minion; a tu’penny ha’penny scoundrel like hundreds of others.’

Bahram glanced out of the window again: somewhere on the other side of White Swan Lake a village was celebrating a wedding with a display of fireworks; rockets were arcing upwards, each seeming to travel on two planes simultaneously, through the sky, and over the misted mirror of the lake’s surface. Gazing at the spectacle, he was reminded of that night, many years ago, when he and Chi-mei had lain beside each other in a sampan that seemed to be suspended within a sphere of light; he remembered how he had reached for the silver in his pocket and poured it into her hands and how she had laughed and said: ‘And Allow? Why no cumshaw for Allow?’

Bahram could not bear to look at the lake again. He glanced down at his plate and saw that the fat had begun to congeal on his untouched slices of duck. He pushed his chair back. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Please forgive me. I am not feeling quite pucka tonight. I think I should retire.’

‘What?’ said Slade. ‘No custard? No port?’

Bahram smiled and shook his head: ‘No, not tonight, if you please.’

‘Of course. A good night’s sleep will give you back your appetite.’

‘Yes. Good night, Lancelot. John.’

‘Good night.’

Bahram went quickly down the stairs, pulling his choga tight around his shoulders. On stepping outside the Chamber’s premises he paused, of long habit, to look around for Apu his lantern-bearer. Ordinarily Vico, or someone else, would have made sure that Apu had been sent to fetch him – but today was no ordinary day, so he was not surprised to find the courtyard empty of lantern-bearers.

Setting off at a brisk pace, Bahram emerged from the Danish Hong to find himself alone on the Maidan, with a thick fog rolling in from the river. The waterfront was already obscured as was much of the Maidan, but pinpricks of light could be seen in the windows of all the factories.

In the distance, on the far side of White Swan Lake, fireworks were still shooting into the sky. On exploding the rockets created a peculiar effect in the fog, sparking a diffuse glow that seemed to linger in the tendrils of mist. During one of these bursts of illumination Bahram caught sight of a gowned man, some ten paces ahead. He could only see his back but there was no mistaking his walk.

‘Allow?!’

There was no answer and the fog had gone dark in the meanwhile. But then another rocket exploded overhead and Bahram caught sight of him again. He raised his voice: ‘Allow! Chin-chin! What-for Allow no speakee Mister Barry?’

Again there was no answer.

Bahram was quickening his pace when he heard Vico’s voice, echoing out of the fog: Patrao! Patrao! Where are you?

He turned to see a lamp bobbing in the gloom.

Here, Vico!

Stay there, patrao. Wait.

Bahram came to a stop and a couple of minutes later Vico’s lamplit face loomed out of the fog.

I was coming to fetch you, patrao, said Vico. The lantern-walas weren’t around today and what with the fog and all I thought you might need a light. I was on my way to the Club when I heard your voice. Who was that you were speaking to?

Allow, said Bahram.

Who? Vico’s eyes suddenly grew very large: Who did you say?

Allow. He was right in front of me. Didn’t you see him?

No, patrao.

Vico put a hand on Bahram’s arm and turned him in the direction of the Achha Hong.

It couldn’t have been Allow, patrao. You must have seen someone else.

What do you mean, Vico? said Bahram in surprise. I’m almost sure it was Allow. He was just ahead of me.

Vico shook his head. No, patrao. It must have been someone else.

Why do you keep saying that, Vico? I’m telling you. I saw Allow.

No, patrao, you could not have seen him, said Vico gently. See, patrao, Allow had not run away as we had thought. It turns out that he had been arrested.

Oh? Bahram ran a finger over his beard. Have they let him off then? How is it that he was out on the Maidan?

Vico came to a stop and put his hand on Bahram’s arm.

That was not Allow, patrao. Allow is dead. It was he who was to be executed in the Maidan this morning. The authorities have just announced the name: it was Ho Lao-kin – that was what Allow was called, remember? After the riot he was taken to the execution grounds. He was strangled this afternoon.