River of Smoke

Fourteen

February 20, 1839, Markwick’s Hotel

My dear Maharanee of Pugglenagore – your servant Robin is proud to announce a Discovery! A most astonishing discovery – or perhaps it is only a conjecture, I cannot tell, and it does not matter, for along with it I also have some news – at last! – of your pictures. But I must start at the beginning…

The first part of this month flew by because of the Chinese New Year – for a fortnight nothing was done: the city was convulsed with celebrations and the lanes rang to the cry of ‘Gong hei fa-tsai!’ Scarcely had the festivities ceased when who should appear but Ah-med! You will remember him as the emissary who took me to Fa-Tee to meet Mr Chan (or Lynchong or Ah Fey or whatever you wish to call him). It had been so long since I last heard from Mr Chan that I had almost given up hope of seeing him again. That is why I was quite inordinately pleased to see Ah-med. I will not conceal from you, Puggly dear, that all my hopes in regard to the task Mr Penrose has entrusted to me are invested in Mr Chan – other than him I have not met a soul who has anything enlightening to offer on the subject of this mysterious golden camellia; no one has seen it, no one has heard of it; no one understands why anyone should think it worth a smidgeon of their attention. Indeed, so fruitless have my inquiries been that I had begun to wonder whether I ought not to consider returning the money Mr Penrose so generously advanced to me (but it really would not suit, dear, for it is already spent – a few weeks ago Mr Wong, the tailor, showed me an exquisite cloud-collar, trimmed with fur, and no sooner had I set eyes on it than I knew it would be a perfect New Year gift for Jacqua – and I was right. He loved it and thanked me so fulsomely, and in such interesting ways, that I could not imagine asking for its return…).

So there was Ah-med and there was I, and after we had gone through all the usual motions of chin-chinning, he told me that Mr Chan had returned to Canton for a few days and wanted to know if I had yet received any pictures from Mr Penrose. I said yes, they had been sent to me several weeks ago and I had been waiting impatiently all this while and would be glad to show them to Mr Chan at his earliest convenience. At this, Ah-med’s smile grew broader still and he informed me that his employer was nearby and would be happy to meet with me at once.

‘Can do, can do!’ I replied. It took but a moment to fetch the pictures from my room and then off we went.

I had imagined that Ah-med would lead me to one of the many teashops and eateries that commonly serve as meeting-places in Canton – on Thirteen Hong Street perhaps, or somewhere in the vicinity of the city walls. But this was not to be: Ah-med turned instead in the direction of the river. I wondered perhaps whether we were once again to take a boat, but no – it turned out that we were to go to Shamian!

I think I have mentioned Shamian before – it is a tidal island, a mudbank that shows itself when the river runs low. It lies at one end of Fanqui-town, not far from the Danish Hong, and although it is only a sandbank it does enjoy a certain kind of renown in the city; this is by virtue of its being the favoured mooring-spot for some of Canton’s brightest and most colourful ‘flower-boats’. It was on one of these, evidently, that I was to meet with Mr Chan – and that, too, in the middle of the morning!

Flower-boats are among the largest – and certainly the gaudiest – vessels on the Pearl River. Were you to see them in some other place you would think them to be figments of your imagination, so fantastical is their appearance; they have pavilions and halls and terraces, covered and open; they are festooned with hundreds of lanterns and ornamented with decorations made of silk. At the entrance of each vessel is a tall gateway, brightly painted in red and gold and decorated with a bestiary of fabulous beings: writhing dragons, grinning demons and toothed gryphons. The purpose of these fearsome gargoyles is to announce to all who approach that beyond lies a world that is utterly unlike the dull reality of everyday experience – and at night, when the river is dark and the boats are illuminated by lights and lanterns, these boats do indeed seem to become floating realms of enchantment. But as I said, this was around mid-morning, and in the bright light of day they looked, I must admit, rather tired and melancholy, more tawdry than gaudy, humbled by the sun and ready to accept defeat in their unwinnable war against mundanity.

When the river is at its height, Shamian can only be reached by boat, but when the tide runs low a brick causeway emerges magically from the water: we crossed over on foot and and Ah-med led me to one of the largest boats. The tall, gilded portals were firmly shut and the only person on deck was an elderly woman, busy with some washing. A shout from Ah-med brought her to her feet and a moment later the doors creaked open. I stepped inside, to find myself in a saloon that had the cluttered and disarranged air of a fairground after a long night. The floor was covered with rugs and laden with intricately carved wooden furniture; on the walls were scrolls with calligraphic characters and dream-like landscapes; the windows were shuttered and the room was fogged with the smell of smoke – of tobacco, incense and opium.

With hardly a pause, Ah-med led me through this saloon into the vessel’s interior. Ahead lay a corridor with cabins on either side – but the doors were all closed and there was not a sound to be heard except the odd snore. Then we came to a dark stairway: here Ah-med came to a halt and gestured to me to go on up.

I was now in a state of no little trepidation, and I made my way up in a gingerly fashion, not knowing what to expect. I emerged on to a sunlit terrace to find Mr Chan reclining on a cushioned couch. He was dressed, as before, in Chinese costume, a grey gown and black cap, but it was not in the Celestial fashion that he greeted me but in a manner eminently English, with a handshake and a ‘Holloa there!’ There was a chair beside the couch: he signalled me to it and poured me a cup of tea. He was sorry, he said, about the great length of time that had elapsed between our last meeting and this one, but his circumstances had been such, of late, that he had been forced to travel a great deal amp;c. amp;c.

Mr Chan is not a man who gives the impression of being enamoured of small talk; at the first pause I handed over Ellen Penrose’s illustrations of her father’s collection. To my surprise, he did not even open the folder; laying it aside he said he would examine the pictures later; for the time being there was another matter he wished to discuss with me.

By all means, said I, at which he proceeded to explain that it had come to his ears that I was closely related to Mr George Chinnery, the famous English painter, and that I was myself an artist in the same style.

Yes, I said, this was all true. So then he asked whether I happened, by any chance, to be acquainted with a certain painting of Mr Chinnery’s – a canvas that was generally known as ‘The Portrait of an Eurasian’?

‘Why yes,’ I said, ‘I certainly do!’ – and this was no more than the truth for it is a fact that I know this picture very well indeed. Of the work Mr Chinnery has done in China, I like none better – and as you know, Puggly dear, it has long been a habit of mine to make copies of pictures that make an impresssion on me. Fortunately I had not neglected to do so in this instance: the copy is small, but, even if I say so myself, perfectly faithful to the original. I have it in front of me as I write: it depicts a young woman dressed in a cloak-like tunic of blue silk, and wide, white trousers. The garments are sumptuous, yet negligently worn; the face has the delicate contours of a heart-shaped leaf and the eyes are black and startlingly large, with a gaze that is at once gentle and direct. A pink chrysanthemum peeps out of her glistening black hair, which is parted in the middle and pulled back so that it falls over her temples in graceful, rounded curves. Behind her, serving as a frame within a frame, is a circular window; it outlines her head and provides a view of a pair of misted mountains in the distance. Every detail is chosen to evoke a Chinese interior – the shape of the sitter’s chair, the tasselled lantern above her head, the high-legged teapoy and porcelain teapot. The face too, in the tint of the skin, and the angle of the cheekbones, is of a clearly Chinese cast – yet there is something about the woman’s smile, her stance, her pose that suggests that she is also, in some way, foreign, an alien at least in part.

The painting is, to my mind, one of Mr Chinnery’s finest, but I am not, as you know, Puggly dear, always the most impartial of judges. It may well be that my passion for this picture springs from a sense of sympathy with the subject – Adelina was her name – not only because she is of variegated parentage, but also because of what I know of the circumstances of her life and her death (and when you hear the story, as you presently shall, I think you too will agree that it is indeed impossible not to be moved…).

You will understand from this that my acquaintance with this painting is not of any ordinary measure (it took no little time and effort, I can tell you, to ferret the story out of Mr Chinnery’s apprentices) – but fortunately I had the presence of mind not to betray to Mr Chan, the extent of my familiarity with it.

‘I do know that painting,’ said I. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘What do you think, Mr Chinnery, could you make a copy of it for me? I will pay handsomely.’

This put me in something of a quandary, for I know that my Uncle would be incensed if he found out – but on the other hand Mr Chan is such an elusive character that I cannot see how he could find out; and nor are my material circumstances such that I can afford to refuse commissions. I said yes, I would gladly do it.

‘Very well then, Mr Chinnery,’ said Mr Chan. ‘I am leaving Canton tomorrow and will be away for four weeks. I would be most grateful if you could have the copy ready for me when I return. I will pay you a hundred silver dollars.’

This quite took my breath away – for the sum is not much less than my Uncle himself might expect for a painting – but you will be glad to know that I was not so nonplussed as to be unmindful of the matter that had brought me there. ‘And what of Mr Penrose’s pictures, sir?’ said I. ‘And the golden camellia?’

‘Oh yes,’ said he, in the most casual way. ‘I will look at the pictures while I am away. We will talk about it again when I see you next, in four weeks.’

And that, my dear Puggly-devi, was the end of it.

I went straight back to my room and stretched a canvas upon a frame. But on making a start, I realized that the task would not be as easy as I had thought. Conjuring up that exquisite face was like raising a ghost from the dead: I began to feel haunted by her presence. For it was here that Adelina died, you know, in Canton, in the very river I can see from my window – almost within sight of the studio founded by her grandfather (it still stands, on Old China Street). This is the other thing I share with Adelina – she too was born of a line of artists. Her grandfather was indeed one of the greatest figures of the Canton School – his name was Chitqua and he was, in all things, a pioneer. While still in his thirties – in 1770 I think it was – he travelled to London, where an exhibition of his work was mounted at the Royal Academy. It created a great sensation and he was feted everywhere he went: Zoffany painted him and he was invited to dine with the King and Queen. Not since Van Dyck had a foreign painter been accorded such a reception in London – and yet, despite his great success, Chitqua’s life came to an inglorious end. On his return to Canton he fell in love with a young woman of humble origin – a boat-woman some say, while others allege her to have been a ‘flower-girl’.

Chitqua was already the father of a substantial brood of children, begotten through many wives and concubines. Against the bitter opposition of his kin, far and near, he insisted on taking his newly found beloved under his protection. She bore him a son, and on this boy, as on his mother, he lavished his love as he never had on anyone before. This engendered, as you may imagine, many jealousies and also many apprehensions in regard to the disposal of the family property. Whether or not these fears had anything to do with Chitqua’s death is not known but suffice it to say that when he suddenly ceased to breathe, after a banquet, there were many who whispered that the painter had been poisoned. The outcome in any event was that his young mistress and her son were left destitute, alone in the world except for a single servant.

The son had received some instruction in painting from his father and had the circumstances of his birth been different he would, no doubt, have been absorbed into one of Canton’s many studios. But the artists of the city are a tight-knit lot, closely connected by blood, and they would not accept the boy into their midst. The lad kept himself alive by doing odd-jobs in Fanqui-town, working as an illustrator for botanists and collectors. The story goes that it was thus that his talent came to the notice of a wealthy American – a merchant who took him to Macau and helped him set up a studio of his own. It was there too that the lad adopted the name by which he would come to be known – Alantsae.

As is often the case with offspring who are born, so to speak, on the wrong side of the blanket, Alantsae proved to be more fully his father’s heir than any of Chitqua’s other sons. He quickly became the most celebrated portraitist in Macau and was much sought after by foreigners – merchants, sea-captains, and of course, the city’s Portuguese funcionarios, many of whom commissioned portraits from him: of themselves, their children and – need it be said? – their wives. Not the least of these luminaries was a fidalgo of ancient lineage and advanced years – one of those chirruping cockchafers who flourish in the dusty cracks of old empires, using their connections to cling for ever to their posts. This fine cavalheiro had previously served a term in Goa, Portugal’s Asiatic metropolis, and while living there had lost one wife and acquired another: his first spouse having been carried away by malaria, he had married a girl of sixteen, some fifty years his junior. The bride belonged to a once-prominent mestico family that had fallen on hard times: she was, by all accounts, a woman of exceptional loveliness, an otter-rose you might say, and her husband, overjoyed at having been able to pin such a prize upon his lapel, commissioned Alantsae to capture her likeness while she was still in the first freshness of her bloom.

I confess, Puggly dear, I am so fascinated by this tale, I sometimes feel I can see them with my own eyes: the lovely Indo-Portuguese Senhora and the handsome young Chinese painter; she in her mantillas and lace, he in his silken robe, dark-eyed and long-haired. Picture them if you will: the child-bride and the youthful painter, she the possession of a man too feeble to consummate his marriage and he too, virginal in his heart. Do you see how their eyes are drawn to each other, under the frowning gaze of the rosary-counting duennas who surround them? But to no avail alas! The Senhora is as pious as she is beautiful; no temptation can persuade her to stray, and the painter’s passion, finding no release, is directed towards his easel. He caresses the canvas with his brush, strokes it, coaxes it, pours his pith upon it in hot, bright jets and lo! the seed is sown and life stirs within the likeness. It comes into the world like a love-child, a thing of such beauty that it deepens the attachment that was conceived during its making. And yet… and yet

… there is nothing to be done – consummation is inconceivable. Society, ever censorious, has its eyes upon them. But heaven itself takes pity upon their love: the old cavalheiro is, as I have said, already in a state of advanced decrepitude and he does not long survive the completion of the painting (some say he is buried with it). After the old man’s passing, the Senhora remains in Macau, purportedly to mourn by his grave, but the world soon discovers that a secret marriage has come about – the Senhora has wedded Alantsae!

You may imagine for yourself the scandal, the gossip, the vile innuendos – the couple are shunned by everyone they know, Chinese, European and Goan alike. The artist, once so much sought after, is now a pariah; his stream of commissions runs suddenly dry and he is forced to eke out a living by painting shop-signs and lurid murals. Yet the couple are not unhappy for they have each other after all, and their passion is rewarded, before long, with another precious gift: a daughter – Adelina. But little do they know, as they rejoice in their babe, that the end of their happiness is near: Alantsae has not much longer to live – grim death is creeping up on him, clothed in the garb of typhus.

After Alantsae’s passing the Senhora struggles on, long enough to see her child into the threshold of adulthood – but then she too goes to an untimely grave, and the young Adelina is consigned to the Misericordia, where orphans and the children of the indigent are suffered to subsist, on public charity.

Well, Puggly dear, suffice it to say that Adelina – or Adelie as she was known – was not the kind of girl who could be expected to live for ever within the walls of a charitable institution. She escaped and became in time the most celebrated courtesan in Macau (this, they say, is how she came to Mr Chinnery’s notice… and what else they say you can well imagine!).

As often happens with famous beauties, there were many men with whom it sat ill that they should have to share a woman like Adelina with others. A fierce struggle broke out amongst her lovers – many of them were rich and powerful, but victory went to a man who had an advantage that no one else could match. It appears that at some point in her past, Adelie had become a dedicated dragon-chaser, consuming copious amounts of opium – it was the man who kept her supplied who claimed her, a person whose position was such that he lived like a shadow, nameless and unseen, being known only as ‘Elder Brother’. Once in his keeping, Adelie became, as you can imagine, a bird in a gilded cage, utterly alone and cut off from the world she had known before; so protective was her new master, so jealous of her fidelity, that he moved her away from Macau to an estate in Canton, where he would visit her when his affairs permitted. But such men, no matter how much they may desire it, are seldom free to lavish their time upon their mistresses: when he could not wait upon her himself, he would send her gifts of money and jewellery and opium with one of his most trusted lieutenants – this young man became her only other connection with the world beyond, her lifeline.

What this led to I need scarcely spell out: inevitably they were discovered; the young man disappeared without trace, and as for Adelina – well, they say that rather than live without her lover she threw herself in the river…

Having read this far, Puggly dear, you will perhaps be posing to yourself the same questions that occur to me: why does Mr Chan want this portrait? Who was Adelie to him? Who is he? In seeking answers you will no doubt arrive at the same conjectures (or discoveries?) that have suggested themselves to me – the conclusions are inevitable and disturbing, but you must not imagine that they will deter me, either from fulfilling my commission, or from discharging my duty to Mr Penrose: your poor Robin is not as timid a creature as you may think…

In four weeks, my dear, dear Countess of Pugglenburg, you shall have my next letter – until then!

*

As the month of February advanced, reports began to trickle in about the southwards journey of the newly appointed High Commissioner and Imperial Plenipotentiary. These accounts reached the Committee mainly through the agency of the Chamber’s translator Samuel Fearon.

Mr Fearon was a blond, willowy young man: his bulletins were much sought-after by some members of the Committee and his entry into the Club would often cause ripples of excitement. Mr Slade was particularly avid in his courtship of the young translator and one day, seeing him go by, he hooked the crook of his cane in his elbow and all but dragged him to his table. ‘Well my boy – do you have anything new for us today?’

‘Why yes, Mr Slade.’

‘Well then, come and sit beside me – I would like to hear it from your own lips. Mr Burnham will yield his chair. Will you not, Benjamin?’

‘Yes, of course.’

So Mr Fearon came to sit at Mr Slade’s table, where Mr Dent and Bahram were also seated. He then disclosed something that astonished everyone present – apparently the approaching Commissioner was paying his travel expenses out of his own pocket! What was more, he was going to considerable lengths to ensure that no unnecessary costs were charged to the state exchequer.

This was received with exclamations of disbelief: the idea that a mandarin might refuse to enrich himself at the public expense seemed preposterous to everyone at the table. Many heads – Bahram’s included – nodded in agreement when Mr Burnham expressed the opinion that the Commissioner was merely posturing in order to dupe the gullible. ‘Mark my words: the squeeze, when it comes, will be all the tighter because it is more subtly applied.’

This strange piece of intelligence was still being digested when Mr Fearon brought in another startling report.

This time, much to Mr Slade’s chagrin, he was unsuccessful in claiming the translator for his table: he was pre-empted by Mr Wetmore. ‘Ah Fearon!’ cried the soon-to-be installed President. ‘Have you got anything interesting for us today?’

‘Yes, sir. I do.’

Immediately the other tables emptied and everyone gathered around the translator. ‘Well what is it, Fearon? What have you learnt?’

‘I am told, sir, that the High Commissioner’s arrival has been delayed.’

‘Is that so?’ said Mr Slade acidly. ‘Well, perhaps he is suffering from the after-effects of an overly riotous celebration of the New Year?’

‘Oh no, sir,’ said Mr Fearon. ‘I believe he has been holding meetings with scholars and academicians, especially those who have some knowledge of realms overseas.’

This too was received with cries of amazement: the notion that there actually existed a group of Chinese scholars who took an interest in the outside world was unbelievable to many members of the Committee. Most in any case were inclined to agree with Mr Slade, who gave a great guffaw and said: ‘Pon my sivvy! You may depend on it, gentlemen – it will be the rhubarb business all over again.’

This served to remind everyone that the mandarins’ previous attempts to inform themselves about the ways of the red-headed barbarians had almost always led to absurd conclusions – as, for example, in the matter of rhubarb. This vegetable was only a minor item of export from Canton, but somehow the local officials had come to be convinced that it was an essential element of the European diet, and that fanquis would perish of constipation if denied it. More than once, in moments of confrontation, had they embargoed the export of rhubarb. The fact that not a single fanqui had swelled up with unexpurgated matter or burst his bowels, had not, apparently, given them any reason to doubt their theory.

To seal the matter, Mr Slade proceeded to recite a passage from an Imperial memorandum – one that could always be trusted to raise a laugh in the Club: ‘Inquiries have served to show that the foreigners, if deprived for several days of the tea and rhubarb of China, are afflicted with dimness of sight and constipation of the bowels, to such a degree that life is endangered…’

When the laughter had died down, Mr Burnham wiped his eyes and declared: ‘There is no denying it. Lord Napier had the measure of it when he said the Chinese are a race remarkable for their imbecility.’

At this Mr King, who had been stirring uneasily in his seat for a while, was moved to protest: ‘Why sir, I do not believe that Lord Napier could possibly have expressed so uncharitable a sentiment: he was after all a pious Christian.’

‘Let me remind you, Charles,’ said Mr Burnham, ‘that Lord Napier was also a scientist, and when his faculties of reason led him to an irrefutable conclusion, he was not the man to dissimulate.’

‘Exactly, sir,’ said Mr King. ‘Lord Napier was not only a good Christian, but also one of the most distinguished sons of the Scottish Enlightenment. I cannot believe he would express such a sentiment.’

‘Very well then,’ said Mr Burnham. ‘Let us have a wager.’

The Club’s betting-book was immediately sent for and a sum of ten guineas was entered into its columns. Then Lord Napier’s book on his experiences in China was fetched from the library and the passage was quickly found: ‘It has pleased Providence to assign to the Chinese – a people characterized by a marvellous degree of imbecility, avarice, conceit, and obstinacy – the possession of a vast portion of the most desirable parts of the earth and a population estimated as amounting to nearly a third of the whole human race.’

Since the wording was not exactly as stipulated, it fell to the President to settle the wager. He adjudicated in favour of Mr Burnham, who then proceeded to earn himself much credit by donating his winnings to Reverend Parker’s hospital.

Even though the evening ended on a light-hearted note, the rumours surrounding the Commissioner’s arrival had the cumulative effect of disrupting the normal functioning of the Chamber and creating an atmosphere of expectation and anxiety. It was against this background that Mr Wetmore hosted a small dinner to thank the outgoing President, Mr Hugh Lindsay, for his services.

The rubicund and high-spirited Mr Lindsay was observed to be uncharacteristically pensive through the meal, and when he rose to make his farewell address it became clear that he was in an unquiet frame of mind. At the end of the meal, after the vote of thanks had been proposed, he rose to offer a few thoughts: ‘That the trade in opium has hitherto held out great and profitable inducement, sufficient to warrant almost any risk, must be admitted. But it must be borne in mind also that the trade has hitherto been allowed, or connived at, by the Chinese authorities. It may be doubted however whether this is likely to be the case for the future. What then is the alternative? Either the trade must be given up altogether, or some mode adopted for carrying it on independent of Chinese interference. Let us be honest: the first of these propositions – of giving up the opium trade – will not be adopted while any other possibility remains open. So there is only one plain and obvious alternative. It is the formation of a settlement under British rule on the coast of China.’

Like many others in the room, Bahram greeted this with polite applause – but in fact there was nothing new about Mr Lindsay’s proposal: similar suggestions had been heard many times before. The advantages of an offshore trading base were obvious: it would allow foreign merchants to send opium and other goods to China without any fear of the Chinese authorities. They would also be spared the risks and opprobrium of transporting their goods to the mainland – that part of it would be taken care of by local smugglers. Western respectability would thus be preserved and the burden of blame would fall clearly on the Chinese.

The one thing against the idea was that everyone seemed to have a different view as to where the new colony should be. Bahram had heard many strange proposals to this effect – but none so startling as the one Mr Lindsay now came up with.

‘I need scarcely tell you,’ intoned Mr Lindsay, ‘that many unappropriated spots exist that are admirably suited to the purpose – but none, to my mind, is the equal of an archipelago that has but recently been seized by the British government: the Bonin Islands, which stretch between Japan and Formosa.’

Bahram had never heard of the Bonin Islands and was astonished to learn that they had been seized by the British government. He could not imagine that they would serve any useful purpose and was glad when Mr Slade offered a counter-proposal: ‘Surely some better place might be found nearer to China – Formosa, for instance?’

Even as the room was pondering this, it became clear that Mr Slade had posed the question only for rhetorical effect. ‘But no, sir!’ he thundered suddenly, signalling a change of tack. ‘After two centuries of commerce, it is impossible that we should abandon our factories and retreat from Canton. It is here that we must make our stand; we must show the Chinese that if they attempt to curtail foreign trade they will find their boasted power shaken to pieces. Is it not time to ask what may be the consequences to this empire of the ignorance and obstinacy of its rulers? Ignorance of everything beyond China, obstinate adherence to their own dogmas of government? The answers are clear: we must remain here, if for no other reason than only to protect the Chinese from themselves. I do not doubt that it will soon become necessary for the British government to intervene here as it has elsewhere, merely in order to quell civil commotion.’

A storm of applause broke out and everyone congratulated Mr Slade on once again having brought a difficult matter to a satisfactory conclusion.

*

At the end of February the weather began to warm up and by the first week of March the days had become swelteringly hot. A new kind of vendor now made an appearance in the Maidan, disbursing ice-cold syrups and frozen sweetmeats from an earthenware vessel that was insulated with hay and strips of cloth.

Towards sunset Neel would often step out into the Maidan to cool off with some chilled syrup. He was on his way there one evening when he collided with Compton, who was even more short-sighted than usual, being in such a hurry that he had neglected to clean his sweat-fogged glasses. ‘Ah Neel! Dim aa?’

‘Hou leng. And where are you going to so fitee-fitee Compton?’

‘Jackass Point-me. To rent sampan.’

‘Sampan? Why?’

‘Don’t you know a-ma? Yum-chae coming Guangzhou tomorrow.’

‘Who?’

‘High Commissioner Lin. All Guangzhou people are renting boats to watch. You want come too maah? Can come with us. Be Jackass Point tomorrow, first part of dragon-hour.’

‘Seven?’

‘Yes; come there. Dak mh dak aa?’

‘I don’t know: I may have to work.’

Compton laughed. ‘Oh don’t worry-wo. No one work tomorrow; not even tai-pan.’

Somewhat to Neel’s surprise Compton’s prognosis was proved correct: later that evening Vico announced that the entire staff was being given the morning off. The Seth would not be breakfasting in his daftar as usual; he had been invited to observe the Commissioner’s entry into the city from the veranda of the Consulate.

The next day it became clear very early that the city was in a mood of high expectation: drums and fireworks were heard in the distance, and at the morning hazri, in the mess, Mesto reported that the markets were deserted and not a shop was open on Thirteen Hong Street. Everyone, even the vendors and vagabonds, had rushed off to catch a glimpse of the Yum-chae.

By the time Neel stepped out on the Maidan, the verandas of the British and the Dutch Hongs were already abuzz with spectators. On reaching Jackass Point, he found it choked with people – it took him a good half-hour to locate Compton, who was herding a band of children along the ghat and into a waiting sampan.

Three of the boys were his sons, said Compton, and the rest were their friends. They had all evidently been warned against any wi-wi-woy-woy for they were on their best behaviour with Ah Neel: not one of them was heard to mutter the words ‘Achha’ or ‘Mo-ro-chaa’ or ‘Haak-gwai’. They kept their eyes shyly lowered as they said their chin-chins, scarcely glancing at Neel’s turban or angarkha. When the sampan began to move they were even heard to admonish children in other boats nearby, reproving them for staring or making rude comments.

…jouh me aa…?

… mh gwaan neih sih!

Progress along the river was very slow because it was choked with boats; they inched along, gunwale to gunwale.

Neel was astonished by the size of the crowd. ‘Why, it’s like a festival day!’ ‘Does this always happen when a high official comes to the city?’

Compton laughed. ‘No! Is usually not like this at all – people go to hide. But Lin Zexu different – not like others…’

Commissioner Lin’s arrival had been preceded, Compton explained, by a steady flow of reports about his southwards journey. These accounts had created an extraordinary ferment in the province. The stories being told were such as to make people wonder whether the Yum-chae might not be the last of a breed of men that had long been thought to be extinct: an incorruptible public servant who was also a scholar and an intellectual – a state official like those memorialized in legend and parable.

While other mandarins travelled with enormous entourages, at public expense, the Yum-chae was travelling with a very small retinue – a half-dozen armed guards, a cook, and a couple of servants – all paid out of his own purse. While the retainers of other officials freely extorted money from all who wanted access to their bosses, Commissioner Lin’s men had been warned they would face arrest if they were found to be taking bribes. At inns and resthouses his orders were that he was only to be served common fare – expensive luxuries, like birds’ nests and sharks’ fins, were banned from his table. On the road, instead of fraternizing with other high officials the Yum-chae had sought out scholars and knowledgeable men, asking their advice on how to deal with the situation in the southern provinces.

‘My teacher also called to meet Yum-chae,’ said Compton proudly.

‘And who is he?’

‘His name Chang Nan-shan,’ said Compton, ‘but-gwo I call him “Chang Lou-si” because he is my teacher. Chang Lou-si know everything about Guangdong. He write many books. Yauh he will be adviser for Yum-chae.’

‘Is he travelling with the Commissioner?’

‘Hai-le!’ said Compton. ‘Maybe you will see him – on the boat.’

In the meanwhile, the crowd had begun to stir sensing the approach of the Yum-chae’s boat Soon a large official barge hove slowly into view: sheets of crimson fabric shimmered upon its hull and flecks of gold glinted brightly in the sunlight. The crewmen were dressed in neat white uniforms, with red trim, and conical rattan hats.

The barge was almost alongside before Neel spotted Commissioner Lin: he was seated in the vessel’s prow, in the shade of an enormous umbrella. To his rear were a few red- and blue-button mandarins; they were flanked by rows of troops with horsehair plumes.

In relation to the soldiers in his retinue, the Yum-chae seemed tiny, and his costume looked drab in comparison with the drapes and pennants that were fluttering around him.

The boat was moving quite fast, with scores of oars dipping rhythmically in the water, but Neel was able to get a good look at the Commissioner’s face. He had expected a frowning, stiffly dignified personage – but there was nothing stern or stone-faced about the Commissioner: he was looking from side to side with a lively and curious expression; his face was full, his forehead high and smooth; he had a black moustache and a wispy beard; in his eyes was a look of keen and active intelligence.

Then Compton tugged at his elbow. ‘Ah Neel! Look there! There is Chang Lou-si.’

Neel saw that he was pointing to a stooped, elderly man with twinkling eyes and a thin, white beard. He was standing in the stern, watching the crowd. Somehow, in the midst of the multitudes, he caught sight of Compton and they exchanged bows.

‘You know him well then?’ said Neel.

‘Yes,’ said Compton. ‘He come often to my shop, talk to me. He very interested in English books and all what is written in Canton Register. Ho-yih one day you can meet him.’

Neel glanced again at the Commissioner’s barge: the stooped figure in the stern seemed to him the very image of a Chinese scholar. He said: ‘I would like to meet him very, very much.’

*

For those who were observing the new Commissioner’s entry into the city from the veranda of the Consulate, the most striking moment of the ceremony came just before he disappeared from view. At the gates of the citadel he stopped to confer with local officials. Then, as if in response to a question, some of these lesser mandarins raised their hands to point in the direction of the foreign enclave. At this point the Commissioner himself turned around – and to Bahram and those beside him, it seemed as if he were looking directly at them.

To have their gaze returned was disconcerting to many of the Committee. No one disagreed with Dent when he remarked: ‘Let us make no mistake, gentlemen: that man has not come here with peaceful intentions.’

Afterwards, along with several members of the Committee, Bahram proceeded to the Club, for tiffin. The weather being clear and warm, the meal was served in the shaded veranda. The ale flowed freely and the fare was excellent but there was little conviviality at the table: instead the gathering quickly took on the character of a council of war. It was agreed that they would meet regularly to pool whatever intelligence they were able to collect; Mr Wetmore, as the incoming President, was assigned the task of creating a system of runners so that the Committee could be summoned to the Chamber at any hour of day or night. It was settled that in the event of a crisis the bell of the British Factory’s chapel would be used as a tocsin, to sound the alarm.

After these rather ominous deliberations it came as something of a let-down when there was no immediate call, either for runners or for bell-ringing. The early snippets of news provided no cause for alarm: the Commissioner was reported to be occupied merely in conducting meetings and setting his household in order. The only unsettling item came from Mr Fearon: it seemed that the High Commissioner had elected not to reside in the part of the city where soldiers and high officials were quartered; instead he had installed his household in one of Canton’s most venerable seats of education, the Yueh Lin Academy.

None of the Committee had heard of this institution, and even Mr Fearon had no idea where it was located: the geography of the walled city was indeed something of a mystery to fanquis, for maps of Canton were hard to come by. A few did exist, however, and the most detailed of them happened to be in the safe keeping of the President of the Chamber of Commerce: based upon a two-hundred-year-old Dutch prototype, the map was annotated and added to whenever new information became available. For reasons of security it was kept in the President’s office, in a locked cupboard – at Mr Wetmore’s invitation everyone trooped upstairs to take a look.

When rolled out, the map revealed Canton to be shaped like a bell or a dome. The top lay on a hill, to the north, with the apex being marked by the Sea-Calming Tower; the base ran along the river, in a more or less straight line. The citadel’s walls were pierced by sixteen gateways and the area inside was so divided as to form a grid, with streets and avenues of varying width criss-crossing each other in a geometrical fashion.

The map showed the foreign enclave and the official quarter to be separated not only by the city walls but also by miles of densely packed habitations: Fanqui-town was but a tiny pendant, attached to the south-western corner of the citadel. The district where the mandarins and the Manchu bannermen lived was far away in the northern quadrant of the walled city. Canton’s fanquis had always considered themselves fortunate in being well removed from local officialdom – and this was why the location of the High Commissioner’s residence was perceived to be of some significance. When tracked upon the map it was seen to be uncomfortably close to the foreign factories.

‘It is perfectly clear,’ said Dent. ‘He’s steered his flagship to cross our bows. He’s getting ready to deliver a broadside.’

At this Mr Slade puffed up his chest and delivered himself of one of his inspired bursts of eloquence. ‘Well, sir,’ said the Thunderer, ‘our course too is clear now. The foreign community must remain perfectly quiet and passive; let the Chinese authorities act – let them commit themselves to the first step: this is the proceeding they always endeavour to force on their opponents; they know the great advantage it gives them: let us for once, endeavour to gain it.’ Slade paused for effect before uttering his last sentence: ‘We must be the willow, not the oak, in the lowering storm.’

There was an immediate chorus of assent: ‘Quite right!’

‘Well said, John!’

Bahram joined enthusiastically in the chorus: he had worried that the hot-heads amongst the British might choose to take an overly aggressive stand; it came as a relief to hear one of the most aggressive among them expressing moderation.

‘You have shot the bulls-eye John!’ said Bahram. ‘Definitely willow is better for now – why to go for oak already? Better to wait for storm.’

But still the predicted gale held off: the next few days brought instead confusing and apparently directionless cross-winds. There was a brief flurry of anxiety when it came to be known that the Commissioner had asked for several convicted opium-dealers to be produced before him – but the alarm subsided when it was learnt that he had actually commuted the offenders’ sentences. This caused some speculation about whether the Commissioner’s severity may have been somewhat overstated – but that too was confuted by the notice that followed. It was an announcement to the effect that the Yum-chae had left Canton in order to inspect the fortifications of the Pearl River.

The Committee breathed a collective sigh of relief and there followed several quiet days – but just as a sense of calm was beginning to return to Fanqui-town, the Commissioner returned. It was then that he made his opening move.

One morning, while Bahram was breakfasting, a runner came to the door of No. 1 Fungtai Hong. It was Vico who spoke with him and after listening to his message he went racing up to the daftar and entered without a knock.

Bahram was sitting at the breakfast table, sampling a plate of pakoras made from the newest spring vegetables. The munshi was reading from the latest issue of the Register but he stopped when Vico came in.

Patrao, a runner came just now: there is an emergency meeting at the Chamber.

Oh? A meeting of the Committee?

No, patrao; it’s a meeting of the General Chamber. But only the Committee are being alerted.

Do you know what it’s about?

The Co-Hong merchants have asked for it, patrao. They are already there; you must hurry.

Bahram drained his chai and rose from his chair: Get me my choga – a cotton one, but not too light.

The weather had been a little cooler of late, and an unexpectedly chilly wind was blowing when Bahram stepped out into the Maidan. He was doing up the fastenings of his choga when he heard a shout – ‘Ah there you are, Barry!’ He looked up to see Dent, Slade and Burnham heading towards the Chamber. He hurried over and fell in step.

The meeting was to be held in the Great Hall which was where the General Chamber usually assembled. They arrived there to find many rows of chairs facing a lectern. Seated in the front row, staring stonily ahead, were some half-dozen Co-Hong merchants, in formal regalia, with their buttons of rank fixed upon their hats; their linkisters and retainers were standing nearby, lined up against a wall.

The chairs around the Co-Hong delegation were mainly empty, the first couple of rows being customarily reserved for members of the Committee. As the new arrivals went to take their seats, they spotted the Chamber’s President, Mr Wetmore. He was conferring urgently with Mr Fearon. They both looked tired and flustered, especially Mr Wetmore, who was unshaven and dishevelled, not at all his usual well-groomed self.

‘Good heavens!’ said Dent. ‘They look as though they’ve been up all night!’

Mr Slade’s lip curled sardonically: ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘Wetmore has started offering lessons in Bulgarian.’

No sooner had they seated themselves than Mr Wetmore advanced to the lectern and picked up a gavel. The hall fell silent at the first knock.

‘Gentlemen,’ said Mr Wetmore, ‘I am grateful to you for coming here at such short notice. I assure you I would not have requested your presence if this were not a matter of the gravest importance – a matter that has been brought to our attention by our friends of the Co-Hong guild, some of whom, as you will see, are present here today. They have asked me to inform you that the entire Co-Hong was summoned yesterday to the residence of the lately arrived Imperial Plenipotentiary, High Commissioner Lin Tse-hsu. They were detained there until late in the night. In the small hours they sent me an edict from the Commissioner, addressed to the foreign merchants of Canton – to us, in other words. I immediately summoned our translator, Mr Fearon, and he has spent the last several hours working on it. His translation is not yet complete, but he assures me that he will be able to communicate the gist of the most important parts of the document.’

Mr Wetmore glanced across the room: ‘Are you ready, Mr Fearon?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Come then; let us hear it.’

Mr Fearon laid a sheaf of papers on the podium and began to read.

‘ “Proclamation to Foreigners from the Imperial Commissioner, His Excellency Lin Zexu.

It is common knowledge that the foreigners who come to Canton to trade have reaped immense profits. This is evidenced by the facts. Your ships which in former years amounted annually to no more than several tens now number vastly more. Let us ask if in the wide earth under heaven there is any other commercial port that yields rewards as rich as this? Our tea and rhubarb are articles without which you foreigners from afar cannot preserve your lives…”’

‘Ah!’ Mr Slade grinned in satisfaction. ‘Did I not predict the rhubarb?’

‘ “Are you foreigners grateful for the favours shown you by the Emperor? You must then respect our laws and in seeking profit for yourselves you must not do harm to others. How does it happen then that you bring opium to our central land, chousing people out of their substance and involving their very lives in destruction? I find that with this thing you have seduced and deluded the people of China for tens of years past; and countless are the unjust hoards that you have thus accumulated. Such conduct rouses indignation in every human heart and it is utterly inexcusable in the eyes of heaven…”’

Mr Burnham, who was seated beside Bahram, was so incensed now that he began to mutter under his breath: ‘And what of you, you damned hypocrite of a mandarin? Have you and your rascally colleagues played no part in these matters?’

‘ “… at one time the prohibitions against opium were comparatively lax, but now the wrath of the great Emperor has been fully aroused and he will not stay his hand until the evil is completely and entirely done away with. You foreigners who have come to our land to reside, ought, in reason, to submit to our statutes as do the natives of China themselves. ” ’

Here incredulous murmurs could be heard in the hall:

‘… submit to Long-tail law…?’

‘… be collared with the cangue, as in the dark ages…?’

‘… be strangled, like Ho Lao-kin…?’

That name again! Bahram flinched and his gaze strayed towards the Co-Hong merchants and their retinues. One of the linkisters seemed to drop his eyes, as if to avoid being caught staring. Bahram’s heartbeat quickened in panic and his fingers tightened involuntarily on his cane. He sensed that the linkister was looking at him again and forced himself to be still. By the time he regained his composure Mr Fearon’s recital was much advanced.

‘ “… I, the Imperial envoy, am from Fujian, on the borders of the sea, and I thoroughly understand all the arts and ingenious devices of you foreigners. I find that you now have many scores of ships anchored at Lintin and other places, in which are several tens of thousands of chests of opium. Your intention is to dispose of them clandestinely. But where will you sell it? This time opium is indeed prohibited and cannot circulate; every man knows that it is a deadly poison; why then should you heap it up in your foreign cargo ships and keep them anchored, thereby wasting much money and exposing them to the chance of storms, of fire and other accidents?” ’

Now Mr Fearon paused to take a deep breath.

‘ “Uniting all these circumstances, I now issue my edict; when it reaches the foreigners, let them immediately and with due respect take all the opium in their cargo ships and deliver it up to the officers of the government. Let the merchants of the Co-Hong examine clearly which man by name gives up how many chests, the total weight and so on, and make out a list to that effect so that the officers can openly take possession of the whole and have it burned and destroyed so as to cut off its power of doing mischief. A single atom must not be hidden or concealed…” ’

A groundswell of protest had been gathering in the hall and it now grew loud enough to silence the translator.

‘… surrender our entire cargoes…?’

‘… so they can be burned and destroyed…?’

‘… why sir, these are the ravings of a madman, a tyrant…!’

Mr Wetmore raised both his arms. ‘Please, please, gentlemen; this is not all. There is more.’

‘Yet more?’

‘Yes, the Commissioner has another demand,’ said Mr Wetmore. ‘He has asked for a bond.’ He turned to the translator. ‘Please, Mr Fearon, let us hear that part of the edict.’

‘Yes, Mr Wetmore.’ Mr Fearon turned to his notes again.

‘ “I have heard it said that in the ordinary transactions of life you foreigners attach a great deal of importance to the words ‘good faith’. So let a bond be duly prepared, written in the Chinese and Foreign character, stating clearly that the ships afterwards to arrive here shall never, to all eternity, dare to bring any opium. Should any ship after this bring it, then her whole cargo shall be confiscated and her people put to death…” ’

‘Shame!’

‘… this is intolerable, sir…’

The hall was now filled with such an outcry that the Co-Hong merchants took alarm; leaving their seats they sought shelter behind their respective entourages.

Mr Wetmore could no longer make himself heard and his gavel too was ineffective against the uproar. Approaching the first row, he held a hurried consultation with the members of the Committee. ‘There’s no point going on with this,’ he said. ‘Nothing can be decided here anyway. The Committee must convene at once. The Co-Hong needs an immediate answer.’

‘Will their delegation wait?’ said Dent.

‘Yes, they insist on it; they say they cannot return without an answer.’

‘Well, let’s get to it then.’

Under cover of the noise, the Committee and the Co-Hong delegation slipped out of the hall, through a back door, and made their way up to the third floor. While the Committee filed into the boardroom the Co-Hong merchants were left to wait in the commodious withdrawing-room that adjoined the President’s office.

As they went to take their seats, many members of the Committee were surprised, and some not a little put out, to see that the young translator, Mr Fearon, had accompanied the President into the room. ‘Why, sir,’ said Mr Slade to Mr Wetmore, ‘have you become so attached to your young friend that you’ve put him on the Committee?’

Mr Wetmore glared at him coldly. ‘Mr Fearon is here to read us the rest of the edict.’

‘Is there more?’ Dent asked.

‘So there is.’ Mr Wetmore nodded to the translator, who began to read.

‘ “In reference to those vagabond foreigners who reside in the foreign hongs and are in the habit of selling opium, I already know their names full well. Those good foreigners who do not deal in opium, I am no less acquainted with them also.” ’

At the mention of ‘good foreigners’ several pairs of eyes turned to glare angrily at Charles King. He pretended not to notice and looked stonily ahead.

‘ “Those who can point out the vagabond foreigners and compel them to deliver up their opium, those who first step forward and give the bond, these are the good foreigners, and I, the Imperial envoy, will speedily bestow upon them some distinguishing mark of my approbation.” ’

Now, unable to contain himself, Mr Slade burst out: ‘Why, the utter loathesomeness of it – he is promising to reward the traitors amongst our midst.’

Since he was looking directly at Charles King, there could be no doubt of who he was referring to. Mr King’s face turned colour and he was about to respond when Mr Wetmore broke in, once again.

‘Please, gentlemen,’ said Mr Wetmore, ‘Mr Fearon is not yet finished – and may I remind you that he is not a member of the Committee and ought not to be privy to any part of our deliberations?’

The rebuke silenced Mr Slade. Mr Fearon, thoroughly rattled, continued to read:

‘ “Woe and happiness, disgrace and honour are in your hands! It is you who must choose for yourselves. I have ordered the Hong merchants to go to your factories and explain the matter to you. I have set, as the limit, three days within which they must let me have a reply. And at the same time the bond, mentioned before, must also be produced. Do not indulge in delay and expectation!” ’

By the time the last words were read, the room was stirring with indignation. Nothing was said, however, until the young translator had been thanked and shown to the door. Then Mr Wetmore took his chair again, and gave Mr Burnham the nod.

Mr Burnham sank back into his chair and stroked his silky beard. ‘Let us be clear about what we have just heard,’ he said calmly. ‘An open threat has been issued against us; our lives, our property, our liberty are in jeopardy. Yet the only offence cited against us is that we have obeyed the laws of Free Trade – and it is no more possible for us to be heedless of these laws than to disregard the forces of nature, or disobey God’s commandments.’

‘Oh come now, Mr Burnham,’ said Charles King. ‘God has scarcely asked you to send vast shipments of opium into this country, against the declared wishes of its government and in contravention of its laws?’

‘Oh please, Mr King,’ snapped Mr Slade, ‘need I remind you that the force of law obtains only between civilized nations? And the Commissioner’s actions of today prove, if proof were needed, that this country cannot be included in that number?’

‘Are you of the opinion then,’ said King, ‘that no civilized nation would seek to ban opium? That is contrary to fact, sir, as we know from the practices of our own governments.’

‘I fear, Miss King,’ said Slade in a voice that was dripping with innuendo, ‘that your Celestial sympathies may have robbed you of your ability to comprehend plain English. You have misinterpreted my meaning. It is the nature of the Commissioner’s threats that show him to be a creature beyond the pale of civilization. Does he not, in his letter, threaten to incite the population against us? Does he not imply that he holds our property and lives at his mercy? I assure you, sir, that such proud, ostentatious and unheard-of assumptions would not be made against us by the representatives of any civilized government.’

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ Mr Wetmore broke in. ‘This is neither the time nor the place to conduct a debate on the nature of civilized government. Let me remind you that we have been issued an ultimatum and our friends from the Co-Hong are awaiting our answer.’

‘ “Ultimatum”?’ said Mr Slade. ‘Why, that very word is repugnant to British ears. To respond to it in any form would be to countenance an insult to the Queen herself.’

At this point Dent tapped the table with his forefinger. ‘I am not of a mind with you on this, Slade. To me, this ultimatum seems a most welcome development.’

‘Indeed? Pray why?’

‘The enemy has hoisted his colours and fired his first broadside. It falls to us now to respond.’

‘And what do you propose we do?’ said Mr Burnham.

Dent looked around the table with a smile. ‘Nothing. I propose we do nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Yes. Let us inform our friends in the Co-Hong that this is a matter of the gravest import and cannot be proceeded upon without due consideration and consultation. Let us tell them this process will take several days – that will give us time to see what this man Lin is made of. An ultimatum is easy to issue but difficult to act upon.’

Having had his say, Dent leant back in his chair and began to doodle upon a piece of paper. It was Mr Burnham who broke the silence. ‘Why Dent, you’re right! It is a stroke of genius. That is what we must do – nothing. Let us see if this Commissioner’s bite is as bad as his bark.’

Mr Wetmore shook his head in disagreement. ‘I don’t think our friends from the Co-Hong will be satisfied with such an answer. And let me remind you that they are expected shortly to return to the Consoo House, with a response from us.’

‘Well then, Wetmore,’ said Dent with a smile. ‘You must go to the Consoo House with them – you, and of course Mr King since he is so greatly beloved of the mandarins. I do not expect that you will have the slightest difficulty in explaining to them that we need a few days to consider the Commissioner’s demands; it is in every way an eminently reasonable proposition.’