River of Smoke

Sixteen

Spasms of rheumatism had kept Fitcher confined to bed for the last several days so it fell to Paulette to gather together the plants that were to be sent to Canton with Baburao.

Time being short they decided, after a quick discussion, to send a collection of six: a Douglas fir sapling; a redcurrant bush and two specimens from the north-western coast of America – a yard-high bush of the Oregon grape, now covered with yellow flowers, and a pot of Gaultheria shallon, with glossy leaves and clusters of delicate, bell-like sepals. Also included were two recently introduced plants from Mexico – the Mexican Orange, with pretty white blooms, and a beautiful fuchsia that was one of Fitcher’s treasures: Fuchsia fulgens.

Paulette had grown attached to each of these plants, especially to the Oregon grape which had proved exceptionally vigorous. It pained her to see them being removed to the Redruth’s gig, to be transferred to Baburao’s junk; like a parent at a time of parting, she doubted that her children would be properly looked after.

‘Sir, I know I cannot go to Canton,’ she said to Fitcher, ‘but could I not travel with the plants a part of the way?’

Fitcher scratched his beard and mumbled, ‘Ee could go as far as Lintin Island; ee’d be all right as long as ee don’t get up to no flay-gerries there.’

‘Really, sir?’

‘Yes. The junk can tow the gig behind it and the men’ll bring ee back afterwards.’

‘Oh thank you, sir. Thank you.’

She ran on deck and signalled to the gig to wait.

The junk was close by, wallowing in the water: when the gig pulled up, Baburao lowered a wooden shelf for the plants. Paulette held her breath as the pots were being winched up, and was hugely relieved when the operation was concluded without mishap. Then a ladder was thrown down for her and she climbed up on deck.

This was the first time Paulette had stepped on Baburao’s junk, and her initial response was one of disappointment. The Redruth had been anchored off Hong Kong long enough that she had come to recognize some of the unusual vessels that plied those waters: caterpillar-like passenger boats, long and thin, with seats arranged in rows; ‘funeral-boats’, piled high with coffins; two-masted ‘duck-tail’ junks, with tiered houses; and perhaps the most eye-catching of all – whale-like ‘pole-junks’, over a hundred feet in length, with mouths that looked as though they were sieving food from the water.

In a place where such vessels abounded Baburao’s junk was not a craft likely to attract much notice: she was a sha-ch’uan – a ‘sand-ship’ – which his grandfather had acquired very cheap, somewhere up north. The ship’s name was too long for Paulette to remember, but it didn’t matter anyway, because in her hearing Baburao always referred to his junk as the Kismat – the word was the exact equivalent, he said, of the Chinese characters painted on the junk’s bows.

Like every other vessel on the Pearl River, the Kismat sported an enormous eye on each side of her bows – a gigantic oculus that seemed to be keeping watch for prey and predators. In size she was smaller than both the Ibis and the Redruth, being only about sixty feet in length, yet she had more masts than either of those vessels, being fitted with no less than five. Their arrangement was as odd as their appearance: they leant this way and that, like the tapers on a wind-blown candle-stand. Only two of the masts were planted squarely in the vessel and even these were slanted at strange, irregular angles, one leaning forward and the other tilting back. As for the three smaller poles, they looked more like sticks than masts, and were attached not to the deck but to the deck rails, being placed seemingly at random around the edges of the hull. The placement of the rudder was equally strange, to Paulette’s eyes at least, for it was fitted not into the centre of the stern, but on one side of the hull, and was controlled not by a wheel, but by a huge tiller that stuck out over the roof of the deckhouse.

In short, with her raised stern, her miscellaneous masts and barrel-shaped hull, the Kismat projected an image of wallowing ungainliness. But this was deceptive: once the mats were up on the masts, the junk provided as smooth a ride as any vessel of her size.

The journey started with a ceremony that seemed, in the beginning, to be very like the pujas Paulette had seen in Calcutta, with incense being offered to T’ien-hou and Kuan-yin (who were benevolent goddesses, explained Baburao, like Lakshmi and Saraswati in India). But then the ritual suddenly exploded, quite literally, into a spectacular tamasha with popping fireworks, banging gongs and the lighting of innumerable strips of red-and-gold paper (to frighten away the bhoots, rakshasas and other demons, said Baburao helpfully). All this, combined with the noise of alarmed ducks, crying babies and snuffling pigs, created an atmosphere such that Paulette would not have been surprised to see the junk flying off like a rocket. But instead, as the noise built to a climax, the Kismat’s matted sails went soaring up and she began to move ahead, leaving behind a long trail of smoke.

The waters at the mouth of the Pearl River were torn by cross-cutting currents and there were so many boats swarming about that the junk needed careful handling. Watching the crew as they went about their work, Paulette realized that it was not just the Kismat’s appearance that made her different from the Ibis and the Redruth: there was a marked contrast also in the way she was manned and crewed. Paulette had thought that the laodah of a junk was something like the nakhoda of an Indian boat – someone who combined, in part or whole, the functions of captain, supercargo and shipowner. But Baburao’s way of commanding his vessel was nothing like that of the nakhodas and sea-captains she had observed on the Hooghly and in the Bay of Bengal; and nor could the Kismat be said to be ‘manned’ – for her crew included several women whose duties were no different from those of the men. And no matter whether male or female, none of the crew would put up with barked orders and peremptory hookums: Baburao usually spoke to them in a tone of mild cajolery, as if he were trying to persuade them of the wisdom of doing as he asked. Stranger still was the fact that much of the time he said nothing at all: everyone seemed to know what they had to do without being told, and when Baburao did choose to interfere, the others did not hesitate to question his orders. When arguments broke out, they were usually resolved not by a display of authority or a show of force, but through the intervention of one of the women.

For several hours the junk threaded a slow and careful path through fleets of fishing boats, sharp-toothed reefs and small, wave-pounded islands. Then her bows turned towards a looming crag, fringed by a line of angry surf.

This, said Baburao, is Lintin Island.

The junk worked its way slowly around to a bay on the eastern side of the island, where two vessels of unusual appearance lay at anchor. The hulls were like those of Western sailships, but their masts had been cut off and their rigging removed, so they looked like barrels that had been cut lengthwise in half.

These were the last of the ‘hulks’ of Lintin, Baburao explained: in the past, they had been used solely for the purpose of storing and distributing opium. One of them was British, the other American, and they had been stationed at Lintin for many years, so that foreign opium-carriers could rid themselves of their wares before heading towards the customs houses that guarded the mouth of the Pearl River. Even a few years before, he said, there would have been many foreign vessels anchored in this bay, busily emptying their holds of ‘Malwa’ and ‘Bengal’; a flotilla of swift fast-crabs would have been sitting here too, waiting to whisk the cargo to the mainland.

Despite the ominous, eerie presence of the misshapen hulks, the bay was a wild and beautiful place, with clouds blowing past the island’s steeply rising heights. Baburao anchored the junk in the middle of the bay, manoeuvring her patiently into place, and choosing his spot with great care.

Now followed another ceremony, with incense, offerings and burnt paper.

Is this another puja? asked Paulette, and unlike the last time, Baburao was slow to answer. She had begun to regret having asked the question when he said, all of a sudden: Yes, it is a puja; but not like the last one. This is different.

O? Why?

Yes, this one is for my dada-bhai, my older brother, who died here

…

It had happened many years before, Baburao explained, but he still could not pass that way without making a stop. The brother he was speaking of was his oldest, and he too had grown up on the Kismat, doing what his father and grandfather had done before him. But one day someone said to him: You’re a strong boy, why don’t you trying rowing a fast-crab? You’ll earn well, better than by fishing or sailing. How could anyone stop him? Every now and then he would go off to work the oars on one of those fast-crabs. It was hard work, but at the end of each run he would be given a little bit of opium as a cumshaw. He could have sold these, of course, and taken the money, but he was just a boy and often he ended up smoking his cumshaw instead. Soon he was working not for the pay but for the opium, and the harder he worked, the more he needed it. In a few years his body was wasted and his mind vacant; he could not row any longer and nor could he do anything else. He spent his time lying like a shadow on the Kismat’s foredeck. One day, when the junk was anchored in this spot he rolled over into the water and was never seen again.

I was the chhota-bhai, said Baburao, the little one, the youngest of four. When my brother died I was very small. My father decided that it would be best for me to go away so he found me a job as a chokra on a Manila-bound ship. He knew that if I stayed here I too would lose myself in the smoke, like my brothers.

Your older brother was not the only one then?

No, said Baburao. My two other brothers, they too went that way. Even though they saw what happened to my oldest brother, they could not stop themselves: they got greedy for money and went to work on the fast-crabs. One of them was found beheaded, his body floating in a creek near Whampoa. To this day we don’t know who killed him or why, but what’s for sure is that it had something to do with the ‘black mud’. The other brother lived longer, he married and had children. But he was a smoker too, and he died when he was in his mid-twenties. After that my father wanted to sell this junk – he said the mud had turned this river into a stream of poison. I was in Calcutta when this came to my ears. I could not bear the thought of selling the Kismat; I had grown up on it. I loved these waters and I decided it was time to come back.

And are you glad you did? said Paulette.

I used to be, but to tell you the truth, I don’t know now. The more I see, the more it worries me. I worry about my sons, my grandchildren. How can they live on this river without being choked by the smoke?

Here Baburao broke off and tapped her on the shoulder: Come, I’ll show you something.

Leading her up to the most elevated part of the poop-deck, he handed her a telescope.

Look there, he said, pointing upriver. You’ll see a big fort, down by the water, right at the river’s mouth. The lascars call it ‘Sher-ka-mooh’, the Tiger’s Mouth; the Angrez call it the Bogue. It was built just a few years ago, to defend the river, and to look at it you would think no one could ever get into such a stronghold. But at night you or I or anyone else could walk in, without anyone stopping us. The soldiers are all lost in smoke, and their officers too. This is a plague from which no one can escape.

*

Within a few hours, it was common knowledge in Fanqui-town that the Dent faction had triumphed in the boardroom. The Achha Hong received the details through Vico, who predicted a celebration and sure enough, it was soon learnt that some of the Seth’s friends would be coming by later in the day.

This set off something of a panic in the kitchen, but by the time the guests began to arrive Mesto had everything in hand: bottles of champagne had been chilled and several batches of croquettes, pakoras and samosas had been prepared and were ready to serve.

Mr Dent and Mr Burnham were the first to be shown up to the daftar; Mr Slade arrived soon afterwards, accompanied by several others. As the celebration got under way, the khidmatgars who were serving the guests kept the rest of the staff informed of what was happening up there: now Mr Burnham was offering a prayer of thanks for the divine guidance that had led their faction to victory; now Sethji was raising a toast to Mr Dent, congratulating him on his leadership.

Vico was the only one to express any reservations: The outcome’s not decided yet, he muttered darkly; Mr Dent may have outmanoeuvred Mr King, but the Yum-chae may not be so easy to fool. Patrao knows this: he is raising toasts all right, but I know he’s worried.

Towards the end of the evening the khidmatgars reported that the Seth was indeed looking a little strained. This was confirmed at dinner time, when Dent and his cronies left for the Club: despite being entreated to join them Bahram elected to stay at home and went straight to bed.

Down in the kitchen there was plenty of champagne left and a lot of food as well; with the Seth safely tucked away in his bedroom no one had to worry about keeping quiet. Glasses were quaffed and trays emptied and then Vico decided to teach everyone the basics of ballroom dancing: ‘Come, munshiji, let me show you a few steps. We will start with waltz.’

Mesto began to beat time on a huge brass dekchi and the others started to clap. Neel’s protests were drowned out and he was soon lumbering around the kitchen with Vico, trying to stay in step.

The sight of their cavorting quickly reduced the others to helpless laughter. A pitcher of grog appeared and was quickly emptied and then the others began to join in too – khidmatgars, chowkidars, kitchen-chokras, even the solemn shroffs; soon, except for Mesto, they were all whirling around the kitchen like children at a mela. Then, at a word from Vico, the tempo of the music changed. The new dance, announced the purser, was called a quadrille and under his instructions they formed themselves into two lines. With their arms interlinked, they rushed at each other, with such force that many were knocked down. They lay on the floor, laughing, and marvelling at the thought that something so ridiculous could pass for a dance.

Then, as the laughter faded away, a furious pounding made itself heard. Vico picked himself up off the ground and went to the front door to investigate. When he came back all trace of merriment was gone from his face.

The Chamber has sent a runner, he said. An extraordinary meeting has been called; the Seth is needed there immediately.

The chapel clock had begun to ring as Vico was speaking: it was eleven at night.

A meeting? said Neel. At this time?

Yes, said Vico. It’s an emergency – the Co-Hong merchants have just returned from a meeting with Commissioner Lin. They’ve asked the foreigners to gather together because they have something very important to tell them.

Vico had already started for the staircase, but on reaching it he turned around: Who’s on valet-duty tonight? Tell him to come quickly.

The man was more than a little tipsy and water had to be splashed on his face before he could be allowed to go upstairs. A half-hour later, the Seth came sweeping down, in a dark choga: his turban, everyone was glad to note, was properly tied, his clothing impeccable.

It was too late to arrange for a lantern-bearer; instead it was Vico who accompanied the Seth to the Chamber, torch in hand.

Now began a long vigil in the kitchen: it was almost two o’clock when the Seth and Vico returned to the Hong. They went straight up to the Seth’s bedroom and another half-hour passed before Vico came down again.

By this time Neel, who had stayed up to work on the Chrestomathy, was the only man awake. Vico fetched a bottle of mao-tai liquor and poured out two stiff measures.

So what happened at the meeting?

Vico drained his glass and poured himself another: Munshiji, it seems patrao and his friends celebrated a little too early.

Why?

Munshiji, you would not have believed all the hungama…

They had arrived at the Chamber of Commerce to find the main hall all lit up, with people milling about as if it were a public theatre. This was fortunate because Vico was able to watch the proceedings from the back.

Twelve members of the Co-Hong were in attendance, seated in a row. Howqua, Mowqua and Punhyqua were there, of course, but so were several of the younger merchants, amongst them Yetuck, Fontai and Kinqua. They had all brought their servants and linkisters with them and there were dozens of lanterns bobbing over their heads, casting dancing shadows upon the walls. The foreigners were on the dimmer side of the room, some sitting and some standing, their faces looming out of a darkness that seemed barely to yield to the flickering sconces that lined the hall. In the no-man’s-land between the two groups stood the translators – a phalanx of linkisters on one side and on the other, the tall, youthful Mr Fearon.

The meeting began with the announcement that the Hongists had come to tell the foreigners about the Yum-chae’s response to the Chamber’s letter: this being a matter of life and death they had decided to use translators instead of speaking pidgin. The result was that every word had to be filtered through many pairs of lips.

‘We took your letter to the High Commissioner and he gave it to his deputy to examine. After it had been read out aloud His Excellency said: “The foreigners are merely trifling with the Co-Hong guild. They should not attempt to do the same with me.” Then he declared: “If no opium is delivered up tomorrow, I shall be at the Consoo Hall at ten o’clock and then I will show what I will do.” ’

What does this mean?

It means, munshiji, that he saw right through Mr Dent’s little game: he told the Hongists that if no opium was surrendered by tomorrow morning he would carry out his threat.

Of executions?

So the Hongists said – and to tell you the truth, munshiji, even I, watching from the back of the hall, could see they were not joking. Their hands were shaking; their servants were weeping; some actually fainted and had to be carried away. But still the Chamber was not convinced. Led by Dent and Burnham, they kept arguing, questioning every detail, asking how the Hongists could be sure that they would really be beheaded – as if any sane man could lie about such a thing. Every member of the Co-Hong said yes, yes, if no opium was surrendered by ten o’clock tomorrow two of them would lose their heads. But still the Chamber went on questioning. Back and forth they went until someone came up with a suggestion: instead of giving up all the opium, why not surrender a thousand chests? Maybe that would keep the Yum-chae happy?

Did they all agree to that?

In the end, yes, but they – the foreigners – bargained and bargained as if it were a matter of buying fish at a bazar. They even tried to get the Co-Hong to pay for the surrendered chests: ‘Why should we pay?’ they demanded to know. This is the price of your own heads – you should bear the costs.’

They said that?

More or less.

Vico shook his head in bemusement. See, munshiji, when you’re in business, you need to think about your profits, everyone knows that. Sometimes you have to do a little hera-pheri, a little under-the-table business. That’s all in the game. Some days you’ll make money and on some days you’ll also lose a little – that’s normal too, for most of us. But these Burnhams and Dents and Lindsays, they don’t look at it like that. They’ve made more money here than anyone can count, and all of it with the help of Howqua, Mowqua and others of the Co-Hong. But now, when it’s a matter of life and death for the Hongists, they’re still bargaining with a ferocity that would put fishwives to shame. It makes you think, if that’s the value they put on their friends’ lives, what would you or I be worth?

But wait, said Neel. What about Mr King? Surely he wasn’t going along with the rest?

No, said Vico. He was talking about the Chamber’s obligations to the Co-Hong, about old friendships and so on – but those weren’t the arguments that weighed with the others. It was another man who got them to change their minds – an English translator. He told them that feelings were running very high in the city and there might be a riot if any of the Co-Hong merchants came to harm. That scared them a little and they decided to offer the Commissioner a thousand chests, as a kind of ransom.

Do you think he will accept?

Vico shrugged. We won’t know know till tomorrow morning. That’s when the world will find out if the Hongists are going to keep their heads.

Vico poured himself a shot of mou-tai and held out the bottle. Another one, munshiji?

Neel waved the bottle away: it was very late and he wanted to be up in time to be at the gates of the Consoo House when the Commissioner came. After such a long day it was unlikely that Bahram would rise at his usual hour and even if he did he would not begrudge an absence occasioned by khabardari.

Next morning, on stepping out into the Maidan, Neel quickly became aware of a subtle change in atmosphere. Today there was nothing jocular about the shouts of the swarming urchins:

… hak gu lahk dahk, laan lan hoi…

… mo-lo-chaa, diu neih louh mei…

… haak-gwai, faan uk-kei laai hai…

For once even the usual cumshaws had little effect. A snot-nosed gang hung on Neel’s heels as he hurried through the Maidan; in their shouts there was nothing playful or teasing, but instead a touch of real venom. At the entrance to Old China Street the boys dropped away. But here, too, Neel sensed something different in the regard of the watching bystanders; there was an anger in their eyes that reminded him of the rioters who had poured into Fanqui-town after the attempted execution.

Halfway down the lane, Neel heard a shout: ‘Ah Neel! Ah Neel!’

It was Ahtore, Compton’s oldest son: ‘Jou-sahn Ah Neel! Bah-bah say come chop-chop.’

‘Why?’

Ahtore shrugged. ‘Come, Ah Neel. Come.’

‘All right.’

On reaching the print-shop Neel was led straight through to the inner part of Compton’s house. Even more than before, the courtyard seemed like an oasis of serenity: since Neel’s last visit the cherry tree in the centre had burst into bloom and it was as if a fountain of white petals had erupted from a fissure in the paved floor.

Compton was sitting near the tree, under the shade of an overhanging roof; in the chair beside him was the white-bearded scholar he had pointed out on the day of the Commissioner’s arrival.

Jou-sahn, Ah Neel, said Compton.

Jou-sahn, Compton.

‘Come meet my teacher, Chang Lou-si.’

Both men rose and bowed and Neel reciprocated as best he could.

Compton and Chang Lou-si had been sitting around a low, stone table, drinking tea. Compton now ushered Neel to an empty chair and they spent a few minutes inquiring after each other’s health. Then Compton said: ‘So-yih, Ah Neel, perhaps you know what happen at the meeting last night?’

Neel nodded. ‘Yes, they offered to give up a thousand chests of opium.’

‘Jeng; that is right. Early this morning the Co-Hong go to Yum-chae to tell about offer.’

‘What happened? Was His Excellency satisfied?’

‘No. Yum-chae understand very well what it is – jik-haih foreigners are trying to bargain. They think he can be bought off, like other mandarin before. But Yum-chae cast their offer aside at once.’

‘So what will happen then?’ said Neel. ‘Are Howqua and Mowqua to face execution?’

‘No,’ said Compton. ‘His Excellency understand Co-Hong have gone as far as they can. He understand also that some foreigners do not object to surrender of opium. Only a few make trouble. Now time has come to move against those men – the worst criminals, ones who make most trouble.’

‘Who do you mean?’

‘Who you think, Ah Neel?’

‘Dent? Burnham?’

Compton nodded. ‘Jardine gone, so now Dent is the worst. We follow his doings over many years; he smuggle, he bribe; he is the black hand behind everything.’

‘So what will be done to him?’

Compton glanced at Chang Lou-si, and then turned back to Neel. ‘All this ji-haih for you, Ah Neel. You understand ne? Cannot speak to anyone.’

‘Yes. Of course.’

‘Dent must answer questions. He will be brought in.’

‘What about Burnham?’

‘No. Not him. Just one British enough for now la.’ He paused. ‘But one other man also will be arrested.’

Neel took a sip of his tea: it was a strong pu-er and made his mouth pucker. ‘Who?’

Compton exchanged a word with Chang Lou-si before turning back to Neel. ‘Listen, Ah Neel: again I say this just to you la? Many people here say that one from Hindusthan must be arrested also. Almost all opium come from there, ne? Without them opium cannot come. They too must be stopped. Best way is to hold up one Hindusthani so others can take warning. Houh-chih with Dent.’

‘And who are you thinking of?’

‘Can be only one man, ne? Leader of Canton Achhas.’

Neel was surprised to find that his throat had gone dry; he had to take another sip of his tea before he could speak. ‘Seth Bahramji?’

Compton nodded. ‘Deui-me-jyuh Neel, but he is responsible for do bad things; a lot of information has come out. And dou, he is allied with Dent.’

Neel looked into his cup and tried to think of Seth Bahram being led off to prison with a cangue around his neck, like Punhyqua. He remembered how, at one time, he had been amused by the devotion of the Seth’s entourage. It was with a start of surprise that he realized that he too had now come to regard him with a loyalty that bordered on love. It was almost as if the tie of blood between Ah Fatt and his father had become his own, making it impossible for him to sit in judgement upon the Seth. He knew then that if he were to play a part in bringing harm upon Bahram, he would be haunted by it ever afterwards.

‘Look,’ said Neel, ‘it is not surprising that you should think of taking this step. But you should know that even if Seth Bahramji and every other Achha trader were to stop trading opium it would make no difference. The drug may come from India, but the trade is almost entirely in British hands. In the Bengal Presidency, the cultivation of opium is their monopoly: few Achhas play any part in it, apart from the peasants who are made to grow it – and they suffer just as much as the Chinese who buy the drug. In Bombay, the British were not able to set up a monopoly because they were not in control of the entire region. That is why local merchants like Seth Bahramji were able to enter the trade. Their earnings are the only part of this immense commerce that trickles back to Hindusthan – all the rest goes to England and Europe and America. If Bahramji and all the other Bombay Seths stopped trading opium tomorrow, all that would happen is that the drug trade would become another British monopoly. It was not the Achhas who started sending opium to China: it was the British. Even if every Achha washed his hands of opium, nothing would change in China; the British and Americans would make sure that opium continued to pour in.’

Neel waited for Compton to translate this and then he laid out the argument that he had saved for the last: ‘And you know what will happen if you include Seth Bahramji’s name with Dent’s?’

‘What?’

‘The Chamber will save Dent by giving up Bahramji instead. Dent will slip out of your grasp.’

‘Haih me! Would they do that?’

‘I am sure of it. After all, they owe much more to the Co-Hong than to Bahramji. If they are willing to risk the lives of their Hongist friends, why would they not give up the Seth?’

He left the words hanging in the air and sat back to sip his tea. In a while, Compton said: ‘Chang Lou-si asks if you and Mr Moddie are from same province? Dihng-hai same clan?’

‘No,’ said Neel. ‘His province and mine are far away – like Manchuria and Kwangtung. We are not even born into the same religion.’

‘Cheng-mahn, Neel, can I ask why you are so loyal to him? Gam, what is difference between him and Dent and Burnham?’

‘Seth Bahram is not like Dent and Burnham,’ said Neel. ‘In other circumstances he would have been a pioneer, a genius even. It is his misfortune that he comes from a land where it is impossible even for the very best men to be true to themselves.’

‘You mean Hindusthan, Ah Neel?’

‘Yes. Hindusthan.’

A look of pity came into Chang Lou-si’s eyes when Compton translated this for him. He said something which seemed to be addressed mostly to himself.

‘Chang Lou-si says: it is so China does not become another Hindusthan that the Yum-chae must do what he has to do.’

‘That is right,’ said Neel with a nod. ‘That is why I am sitting here with you.’

*

The meeting at the Chamber had ended so late, amidst so much ill-feeling, that Bahram would have had no sleep that night if not for a generous dose of laudanum. Having once drifted off, he slept deeply and awoke just as the chapel clock was striking eleven.

The windows of the bedroom were shuttered and except for the lamp on the altar it was completely dark. Still fuzzy from the laudanum, Bahram wondered whether he had slept right through the day and into the night. Then he saw glimmers of sunlight filtering in through the gaps in the window frames and suddenly the events of the night before came rushing back to him: the arguments and counter-arguments; the broken faces of Howqua and Mowqua, and Dent’s warning that giving up a single chest would quickly lead to the surrender of them all; and then he remembered the intervention that had clinched the matter: Mr Thom’s prediction that there would be riots if any harm came to Howqua, Mowqua or any other Co-Hong merchant. That was when Wetmore had suggested that the Chamber offer up a thousand chests of opium as ransom for the Hongists’ lives.

Like the other tai-pans Bahram had agreed to contribute his fair share of crates – but there was no surety, of course, that Commissioner Lin would accept the offer: not till ten in the morning would it be known whether he was going to carry out his threats.

And now it was eleven, the hour well past: for all he knew Howqua and Mowqua were already dead.

Reaching for the bell-rope, Bahram tugged hard and within minutes a khidmatgar appeared at the door.

Where’s Vico? said Bahram.

He went out, Sethji.

And the munshi?

He’s in the daftar, Sethji. Waiting for you.

Bahram gestured to the man to step inside. Lay out my clothes, jaldi.

Dressing hurriedly, Bahram crossed the corridor and stepped into the daftar.

Munshiji, did you go to the Consoo House this morning?

Ji, Sethji.

What happened? Did Commissioner Lin announce his verdict?

No, Sethji. I was there till half past ten. Commissioner Lin didn’t come to the Consoo House. There was no verdict. Nothing.

Are you sure?

Ji, Sethji, I am sure.

Giddy with relief, Bahram reached for the door jamb to steady himself. If Commissioner Lin hadn’t come to the Consoo House, it could only mean that he had accepted the Chamber’s offer. A thousand chests was no small thing, after all: even a year earlier that quantity of opium would have fetched three hundred and twenty-five thousand taels – equivalent to about eleven and a half tons of silver bullion, in other words. If Commissioner Lin were only to keep a fraction of it for himself, it would still be enough to provide for generations of his descendants. There was a scarcely a man on earth who would not have been tempted.

A great weight seemed to rise off Bahram’s shoulders. He looked around the daftar and was glad to see that everything was as it should be: breakfast was on the table and Mesto was waiting with a napkin over his arm. A sense of calm came over him as he seated himself at the table: for once, he felt no desire to know more about the news; all he wanted was to eat his breakfast in peace.

Sethji, shall I read from the Register?

No, munshiji, not today. It would be better if you went to find Vico.

Ji, Sethji.

The munshi’s voice receded as Bahram ran his eyes over the table. It was clear at a glance that Mesto had made an extra effort that morning: he had evidently done a round of the Maidan’s food vendors for Bahram could see char-siu-baau buns, light, fluffy and filled with roast pork, and a few chiu-chau dumplings as well, of the kind he liked best, stuffed with peanuts, garlic, chives, dried shrimp and mushrooms. Mesto had also prepared one of Bahram’s Parsi favourites, kolmi bharelo poro, an omelette with a filling of stewed tomatoes and succulent prawns.

Bahram tasted it and gave Mesto a smile. Excellent! Almost as good as my mother’s!

Mesto grinned with pleasure and pushed the dumplings towards him. Try these, Sethji; they’re really fresh.

Bahram ate slowly, lingering over every dish. The better part of an hour passed but neither Vico nor the munshi had returned by the time he finished his meal.

What’s taking them so long? Mesto, send a boy to look for them.

Mesto had been gone only a few minutes when Vico and Neel burst in, flushed and out of breath.

Patrao, a paltan of Manchu soldiers has gone to Mr Dent’s place! The Weiyuen is with them.

The Weiyuen was the head of the local constabulary, a figure who rarely ventured into Fanqui-town.

Impossible! said Bahram. Why would he go there?

It was the munshi who answered: They’ve got a warrant for Mr Dent, Sethji. He’s been charged with smuggling and many other things.

What other things?

They say he’s been spying and trying to foment trouble in the country.

Are they arresting him?

They want to take him into the old city, for questioning.

Bahram frowned as he looked at the munshi. How do you know all this?

Mr Burnham’s gomusta told me, Sethji; Mr Burnham’s house is in the same hong, the Paoushun. The gomusta-baboo saw it all.

Bahram pushed his chair back and rose to his feet. Have they arrested Dent already? Or is he still there?

He’s still there, patrao, said Vico. The other tai-pans are all heading to his place now.

I must go too, said Bahram. Where’s my choga and cane?

The Paoushun Hong was only four doors from the Fungtai and it took Bahram just a few minutes to walk over. Stepping through the entrance, he found his way blocked by a detachment of guardsmen, tall soldiers with plumed helmets. Fortunately, one of the Co-Hong’s linkisters, Young Tom, was with them; he recognized Bahram and persuaded the soldiers to let him pass.

Dent’s lodgings were at the back of the factory compound, overlooking Thirteen Hong Street. To get there, Bahram had to pass through several courtyards: usually abuzz with people, these too were empty – all but the last which led to Dent’s lodgings. This one, in marked contrast to the others, was filled with people, almost all of them Chinese; most were squatting dejectedly on the paved floor of the courtyard, under the watchful eyes of a detachment of Manchu soldiers.

As he was pushing his way through, Bahram felt a tug on his sleeve.

‘Mr Moddie, Mr Moddie – please help…’

Bahram was astonished to recognize Howqua’s youngest son, Attock: usually suave and reserved he was now in a state of complete dishevelment, his face streaked with dirt.

‘What is happening, Attock?’ said Bahram. ‘Is your father here also? In Mr Dent’s house?’

‘Yes. Also Punhyqua. Yum-chae say he cuttee allo head if Mr Dent not go. Please Mr Moddie, please talkee Mr Dent.’

‘Of course. I will do all what I can.’

Bahram was at the entrance to Dent’s lodgings now; the door was wide open and no one stopped him from stepping inside.

Dent’s lodgings, like Bahram’s, consisted of a vertical set of rooms, distributed over three floors. As was the custom in Fanqui-town, the storage spaces were on the lowest level. The room that adjoined the entrance was in fact a godown, filled with objects that had accumulated there over a period of several decades. The contents consisted of the usual melange of things that passed through Fanqui-town – tall clocks from Europe, lacquerware, locally made renditions of European furniture and suchlike – except that in this instance they also included a number of other curiosities: stuffed animals, pottery and so on.

Now the dusty, dimly lit godown was crowded with people as well as objects. Seated in the centre, on a dainty Chippendale love-seat, was a glowering, stiff-backed mandarin, with a scroll in one hand and a fan in the other. On one side of him loomed the stuffed head of an enormous rhinoceros; on the other side were Howqua and Punhyqua. The two Hongists were crouched on the floor and both had chains around their necks. Their tunics were so begrimed that they looked as if they had been dragged through miles of dust. Their caps were conspicuously devoid of their buttons of rank.

Bahram could remember a time when mandarins would appear before Howqua and Punhyqua as supplicants: the sight of these two immensely wealthy men crouching beside the Weiyuen, like beggars, was so incomprehensible that he felt compelled to look more closely, to see if they were really who they seemed to be.

Only after several minutes had passed did Bahram realize that Dent, Burnham, Wetmore and several other foreign merchants were on the other side of the room, standing clustered around Mr Fearon. He made his way over and was just in time to hear Burnham say: ‘Jurisdiction – that is the principle we must cling to, at all costs. You must explain to the Weiyuen that he does not have jurisdiction over Mr Dent. Or any other British merchant for that matter.’

‘I have tried, sir, as you know,’ said Mr Fearon patiently. ‘And the Weiyuen’s response was that he is acting on the authority of the High Commissioner, who has been invested with special powers by the Emperor himself.’

‘Well, you must explain to him then,’ said Burnham, ‘that nobody, not even the Grand Manchu himself, can claim jurisdiction over a subject of the Queen of England.’

‘I doubt that he will accept that, sir.’

‘But nonetheless, you must make this clear to him, Mr Fearon.’

‘Very well.’

As Mr Fearon stepped away, Dent ran a hand over his face. Bahram saw now that he looked pale and ill; his fingernails were bitten to shreds.

‘My dear Dent!’ said Bahram, extending a hand. ‘This is terrible. What do they want of you?’

Dent was evidently too shaken to speak, for it was Burnham who answered. ‘They say they want to escort him to the old city, to ask him a few questions. But it is likely that their real intentions are quite different.’

‘The rumour’, added Wetmore, ‘is that the Commissioner has asked that a cook, specializing in European food, be provided by the Co-Hong.’

‘What does it mean?’ said Bahram. ‘Are they planning to keep Dent? Put him in jail?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Burnham with a grim smile. ‘Or it could be something worse still – maybe they’re planning to throw him a Last Supper.’

‘Oh please, Benjamin,’ said Dent, wringing his hands. ‘Must you speak of that?’

‘Sir!’

Mr Fearon was back now. ‘The Weiyuen says it is clearly stated in the Emperor’s decrees that all foreign residents in China must abide by Chinese law.’

‘But that has not been the custom,’ said Wetmore. ‘In Canton, it has always been understood that foreigners would conduct their affairs according to their own laws. Please explain that to the Weiyuen, Mr Fearon.’

‘Very well, sir.’

Mr Fearon was hardly gone before he was back. ‘The Weiyuen asks that you approach him. He wishes to address you directly.’

‘Approach him?’ cried Slade indignantly. ‘So he may rub in our faces the degradation he has inflicted on Howqua and Punhyqua? Why, it is the most abominable impudence!’

‘He insists, sir.’

‘We had better go,’ said Dent, ‘there’s no need to provoke him.’

The others followed him across the room and positioned themselves so they could address the Weiyuen without being directly confronted with the two chained Hongists.

‘The Weiyuen asks if in your country foreigners are exempted from observing the laws of the land.’

‘No,’ said Mr Wetmore. ‘They are not.’

‘Why then should you consider yourselves exempt from Chinese law?’

‘Because it has been the custom for the foreign community in Canton to regulate itself.’

‘The Weiyuen says: this custom holds only so long as you do not flout the laws of the land. We have given you warning after warning, issued edicts and proclamations, and yet you have continued to bring opium ships to our coast, in defiance of the law. Why then should you not be treated as criminals?’

‘Please explain to the Weiyuen,’ said Mr Wetmore, ‘that as Englishmen and Americans, we enjoy certain freedoms under the laws of our own countries. These require us to be subject, in the first instance, to our own laws.’

This took a while to explain.

‘The Weiyuen says he cannot believe that any country would be so barbaric as to allow its merchants the freedom to harm and despoil the people of a foreign realm. This is not freedom – it is akin to piracy. No government could possibly condone it.’

Mr Slade’s patience had worn thin by now, and he had begun to tap his cane loudly on the floor. ‘Oh for heaven’s sake!’ he cried. ‘Can we not dispense with this mealy-mouthed cant? Please tell him, Mr Fearon, that he will know what freedom means when he sees it coming at him from the barrel of a sixteen-pounder.’

‘Oh I cannot say that to him, sir,’ said Mr Fearon.

‘No, of course not,’ said Dent. ‘But I do believe Slade has a point. The time has come when we must seek Captain Elliott’s intervention.’

Mr King had been listening to this exchange with a wry smile, and he broke in now: ‘But Mr Dent! It is you and Mr Slade who have always wanted to keep Captain Elliott at a distance from Canton. Am I wrong to think that it was you who said that the involvement of a government representative would be a perversion of the laws of Free Trade?’

‘This is no longer a matter of trade, Mr King,’ said Dent coldly. ‘As you can see, it now concerns our persons, our safety.’

‘Oh I see!’ said Mr King with a laugh. ‘The government is to you what God is to agnostics – only to be invoked when your own wellbeing is at stake!’

‘Please, sir,’ Mr Fearon broke in. ‘The Weiyuen is waiting. What am I to say to him?’

The answer was provided by Mr Wetmore. ‘Tell him that it is impossible for us to do anything without consulting with the English Representative, Captain Elliott, who is currently in Macau. Please inform him that we have sent word to him. He will be here soon.’

Absorbed in this exchange, Bahram had become totally oblivious to everything else that was going on around him: he was startled when he heard Zadig’s voice in his ear.

Please Bahram-bhai, can I have a word with you?

Yes. Of course.

They retreated to a quiet corner, behind a huge armoire.

There’s something I must tell you, Bahram-bhai.

Yes. What is it?

Zadig leant closer. I have it on good authority that your name was also on the arrest warrant.

What warrant? What are you talking about?

The same warrant that has been served on Dent. I have it on good authority that your name was on it this morning. You too were to be arrested. I believe your name was removed just before the Weiyuen set off to fetch Dent.

Bahram’s eyes opened wide in disbelief: But why would they want to arrest me? What have I done?

They are evidently well informed about what has been going on at the Chamber. Clearly they know that Dent has been opposing the surrender of the opium. Perhaps they have learnt of your opposition too.

But how could they know? said Bahram. And if they do, then why did they remove my name?

Perhaps they felt the Chamber might give you up in exchange for Dent.

Bahram’s voice fell to a whisper. But the commitee would not allow it surely? he said. Would they?

Listen, Bahram-bhai, you are not an American or an Englishman. You don’t have any warships behind you. If the Chamber had to surrender you or Dent, who do you think they would pick?

Bahram stared at him: his throat had gone dry but he managed to say: What shall I do then, Zadig Bey? Tell me?

You had better go back to your hong, Bahram-bhai. And maybe you should stay out of sight for a while.

Although not entirely persuaded, Bahram decided to follow Zadig’s advice. He slipped away and on the way back he had the distinct impression that the guardsmen were scrutinizing him with special care; while crossing the Maidan his instinct told him he was being watched. Everywhere he looked, eyes seemed to be following him: although he strode along as fast as he could, the two-minute walk seemed to last an hour.

Even the safety of his daftar brought little comfort to Bahram: it was as if the familiar surroundings had become a cage. When he looked out of the window, squads of guardsmen seemed to appear out of nowhere, to return his gaze; when he sat at his desk, he began to wonder what would have happened if his name had remained on the warrant. What if Howqua and Mowqua had come to the Achha Hong, with chains draped around their necks, to beg him to give himself up to the Yum-chae? He could almost hear Dinyar and the other Parsis clicking their tongues and whispering at a safe distance: Poor Shireenbai… husband in the chokey… just imagine the shame…

That night even laudanum failed to have its usual effect: the draught he took was strong enough that he was able to shut his eyes, but the sleep that came from it was neither continuous nor untroubled. At one point he imagined that his fravashi, his guardian spirit, was taking leave of him, abandoning him to make his way alone through the rest of his days on earth. He sat up to find the room plunged into a funereal darkness: even the lamp in his altar had gone out. He got groggily out of bed and kept striking matches until the divo lit up again. Barely had he closed his eyes – or so it seemed – when he was visited by another, even more disturbing vision: he saw himself stepping on to the bridge of heaven, Chinvat-pul; he saw that his way was barred by the angel of judgement, Meher Davar; he heard himself mouthing the words Kam nemon zam, kuthra nemon ayem? – ‘To which land shall I turn, where shall I go?’ – he saw the angel’s hand turning to point to the darkness under the bridge; he saw himself tumbling off the edge, falling into the fathomless chasm below.

He woke to find himself drenched in sweat – yet never had he been so glad to wake from a dream. Reaching for the bell-rope he pulled on it so hard that Vico came running up the stairs.

What’s the matter, patrao? What happened?

Vico – I want you to go to the Paoushun Hong. See what you can learn about what’s going on with Dent. And take the munshi with you too.

Vico looked at him in surprise. No work today, patrao?

No. I don’t feel well; tell them to bring my breakfast to the bedroom.

Yes, patrao.

Through the rest of the morning, Vico and the munshi took it in turns to keep Bahram informed: now the Hongists were at Dent’s house; now they were at the Chamber pleading with the members to persuade Dent to give himself up.

‘But we do not possess the authority to coerce any of our members,’ insisted the Committee.

‘What is the purpose of a Chamber then,’ responded the Hongists, ‘if it has no influence over its members?’

In the early afternoon the munshi reported that he had just seen Zadig Bey – he was accompanying a delegation of translators and mediators; they were on their way to visit the mandarins.

A few hours later, Zadig dropped by himself, looking exhausted but also strangely exhilarated.

What happened? Where did you go? To the Consoo House?

No, said Zadig. We went into the walled city – for the first time ever in my life…

They had entered by the Choolan Gate and were taken to the temple of Kuan-yin. They had seated themselves in the first courtyard, in the shade of an immense tree. Soon they were led into the temple’s interior, to the courtyard where the priests lived, and there they were served tea, fruit and other refreshments. After a while several senior mandarins arrived, including the treasurer of the province, the salt commissioner, the grain inspector and a judge.

Some of them had hoped, and some had feared, that the Yum-chae would be there too – but such was not the case; only these other officials were present.

They were asked their names, their countries and so on, and then the mandarins said: ‘Why doesn’t Mr Dent obey the Yum-chae?’

It was Mr Thom, the translator, who spoke for them: ‘The foreigners are convinced that Mr Dent would be arrested and detained if he went into the old city.’

It was the judge who answered. He said: ‘The High Commissioner’s eyes are very sharp and his ears very long. He knows this Dent to be a very rich capitalist. The High Commissioner holds positive orders from the Emperor to put down the opium trade; he wishes to admonish this Dent and also to inquire into the nature of his business. If this Dent does not consent to come before him, he shall be dragged out of his house by force. If he resists he will be killed.’

To this the delegation made no response so the treasurer said: ‘Why do you continue to shield this Dent? Is the trade with China not dear to you foreigners?’

‘Yes,’ answered Mr Thom. ‘But Dent’s life is still dearer.’

And then, said Zadig, a very strange thing happened, Bahram-bhai. They liked Mr Thom’s answer so much they began to clap! Can you believe…

Before he could finish, Vico burst in. Patrao – look out of the window!

With Zadig beside him, Bahram went to the window and looked down: a crowd had gathered around the entrance to the British Factory. Visible over the heads of the milling spectators were the turbans of a paltan of sepoys; some of them had guns on their shoulders and the man in the lead was carrying the Union Jack.

‘Captain Elliott,’ said Zadig. ‘It must be him!’

‘Oh thank God, thank God,’ said Bahram. Closing his eyes, he murmured a prayer of gratitude; for the first time in many days he felt safe; having the British Representative nearby was like being granted a reprieve.