River of Smoke

Seventeen

March 25, 1839

Markwick’s Hotel, Canton

Dearest Puggly, bad news is always hard to convey, but never more so that when one is hard pressed for time. You will understand then why this letter is doubly difficult: for not only have I to tell you about a most unfortunate development, it appears that I must do so with the greatest possible dispatch – for there are signs that something ominous is brewing in Fanqui-town today. I can hear disturbing sounds even as I write – on the roof of this hong, hammers are pounding, feet are running urgently to and fro – these are reminders that I have but little time and must be brief…

You will be glad to know that yesterday, under the most trying circumstances, Baburao succeeded in bringing your precious plants safely to Canton. The traffic on the river was all at sixes and sevens, he said, because Captain Elliott, the British Representative, was speeding down to Canton from Macau, trying to stay ahead of the Chinese authorities. Baburao actually saw Captain Elliott go past, at a bend in the river – he was in a swift cutter, rowed by a team of lascars, with a paltan of sepoys for an escort: when approached by mandarin boats, they forced their way past, more or less at gunpoint.

The Captain’s haste was occasioned – and this will serve to give you an idea of the Tumult that has seized Fanqui-town of late – by a rescue mission of sorts: Mr Dent has been asked to appear in person before the Commissioner and is terrified out of his wits! He believes he will be detained and has refused to leave his house; all his cronies have gathered around to support him, fearing that they may be next.

I was told about this yesterday by Charlie King, who was in Mr Dent’s lodgings when it happened: it appears the Commissioner has recognized that the foreign merchants would liefer sacrifice the lives of the Co-Hong merchants than part with their opium. As a consequence he has decided to move directly against them: he has stopped issuing travel permits, which means that they cannot run away from Canton; he has also decided to confront the biggest and most unregenerate smuggler of all, Lancelot Dent. This has taken Mr Dent and his allies completely by surprise: evidently, they had assumed that being Europeans they would never be asked to personally answer for their crimes.

Charlie says that Mr Dent’s face was quite a sight when the warrant was served on him. Within minutes he became a pathetic shell of a man; his vaunted doctrine of Free Trade was forgotten in a flash, and he lost no time in seeking refuge within the skirts of his government. He and his Free-Trader cronies are full of braggadocio and false conceit, but in fact they are the rankest of cowards – men who would count for nothing if they did not have the British Army and Navy to stand behind them as the guarantor of their profits.

In light of this you will understand, Puggly dear, what a great hubbub was occasioned by Captain Elliott’s arrival in Fanqui-town. A huge crowd, of Chinese as well as foreigners, gathered to watch as he went from his cutter to the Consulate where he proceeded to hoist the flag. Then, surrounded by his sepoys, he went off to the Paoushun Hong, from wherein he shortly emerged with poor Mr Dent, who was, by this time, shivering like a leaf. Under the Captain’s protection, he crossed the Maidan and went into the British Factory: this has now become Mr Dent’s lair and refuge. Charlie says it is a matter of shame and infamy for Britain that a known criminal should be given the shelter of her flag.

Not long afterwards a meeting of all foreign merchants was called in the British Hong – it was perhaps not my place to attend, but you know how nosy I am. I would not have missed it for the world! I went with Zadig Bey – and you cannot imagine, Puggly dear, what a tamasha and goll-maul there was, with foreigners of every stripe jostling for seats! We had to fight our way in.

I wish I could say the Captain’s speech lived up to the excitement – but unfortunately it was the usual Burra Sahib stuff: he made no mention at all of the ways in which his government has connived in the smuggling of opium; nor did he speak of the charges levelled against Dent and the other smugglers. He announced instead that he would forthwith demand travel permits for all foreigners; if these were denied, he declared, he would consider it an act of war (does it not put you in mind, Puggly dear, of a dacoit leader marching into a courtroom and demanding the immediate and unconditional release of his gang?). Then – and this was the most alarming part – the Captain urged us all to move our belongings to the English ships that are currently anchored at Whampoa. This led everyone to believe that he would soon order an evacuation – and I am sure you can imagine, Puggly dear, how upset I was by that. The prospect of leaving Jacqua, of abandoning the one place on earth that has offered me some small measure of Happiness is, needless to add, utterly abhorrent to me…

Cast into the deepest melancholy, I was sitting in my room, wondering what to do next when who should arrive but Baburao.

I was very glad of course to learn that your consignment of plants had been safely transported to Canton – but I confess (and I trust you will not think any less of me for this, Puggly dear) that the news could not have come at a less opportune moment. Never had plants been further from my mind: what was I to do with them? How was I to get them to the Pearl River Nursery, without Ah-med’s guidance? How could I even be sure that Mr Chan was still in the city? I have seen nothing of either him or Ah-med since my last visit.

And yet, it was clear that if the exchange of plants was to be effected at all it would have to be done at once – for the foreign merchants have now well and truly thrown down the gauntlet, not only refusing to surrender their opium, but declining even to be questioned. It was evident that there would be Consequences.

Baburao was perfectly in agreement with me on this score: the Commissioner was not a man to be lightly defied, he said: he was sure to shut down the river. It was imperative that the exchange be concluded before that happened.

Night had already fallen, so it was too late to set off for Fa-Tee immediately; we agreed instead that we would leave early the next day. So this morning I went down to the river and there, as arranged, was Baburao, in a covered sampan with your six pots carefully stowed in the shade (for it has been dreadfully hot here of late). We left at once, and I am glad to say I was not as hapless a guide as I had feared: on approaching Fa-Tee I was able to point out the creek which led, so far as I remembered, to the Pearl River Nursery.

It was only after we had entered the creek that we became aware of something very alarming. There were several officious-looking boats positioned ahead of us and the shores were swarming with troops.

You will not be surprised to learn, Puggly dear, that Baburao displayed greater presence of mind than your poor Robin: he pushed me under the sampan’s covering and told me to conceal myself amongst the plants. This I proceeded to do with the greatest celerity: I curled up like a kitten and cowered between your pots (no easy matter, I might add, Puggly dear, for that nasty Douglas fir of yours did not take kindly to my presence – not for nothing, I discovered, is it said to be armoured with ‘needles’).

Baburao, in the meanwhile, had kept our sampan on a steady course with the intention of declaring, if asked, that he was merely passing through the creek on the way to some other destination. Sure enough, shortly before the nursery, we were intercepted. Baburao was then questioned at length by an officer. You cannot conceive, Puggly dear, how terrifed I was – and not only was I palpitating with fear, I had also to suffer the most extreme discomfort (for your vile little currant bush had somehow succeeded in inserting a leaf into my nose – it was all I could do not to erupt into a paroxysm of sneezes).

But fortunately Baburao’s presence of mind did not fail him: I did not of course understand what he said to the officers, but it must have been persuasive for our sampan was allowed to proceed without being searched.

Baburao rowed on, at a steady pace, and as we were drawing abreast of the nursery I found a chink in the boat’s bamboo covering and put my eye to it. I should have been prepared by this time for the sight that met my eyes but alas, I was not: what I saw made my blood freeze. Suffice it to say that the citadels had been breached! The gates of the nursery, and the garden beyond, had been battered down, and many of Mr Chan’s men were lined up in a row, along the bund, with their hands tied behind their backs – to meet what fate I dare not think.

Of Mr Chan and Ah-med, I saw no sign, but nor did I look too closely, for the sight of that cordon of soldiers had filled my head, I must admit, with horrid imaginings: what if I had been there when it happened? What would have become of me?

Oh I dare not speak of it, Puggly dear – my belly quakes; I fear if I dwell too long on all the dreadful possibilities my trowsers will become a creperie.

I had suspected for a while that Mr Chan – alias Lynchong, alias Ah Fey – is, let us say, a man of many parts. If this had not deterred me from seeking him out, it was only because of my incorrigible curiosity. I cannot deny that the intriguing story of Mr Chan’s life had piqued my interest: it seemed to me exceedingly peculiar that a man should love flowers as well as opium – and yet I see now that there is no contradiction in this, for are they not perhaps both a means to a kind of intoxication? Could it not even be said that one might lead inevitably to the other? Certainly there could be no opium without flowers – and of what else do dragon-chasers dream but of gardens of unearthly delight?

Be that as it may, Baburao and I could not but count ourselves singularly fortunate in having so lightly escaped from this little misadventure. On the way back we decided that the plants must be returned to you at once, for Baburao doubts that he will be able to keep them alive for long – and we know how precious they are to you and how far they have travelled. So for the nonce, Puggly dear, it may be best to plant them in your island nursery so that they may grow and propagate while awaiting more propitious times. I know this will come as a grievous disappointment to you and Mr Penrose – but it is some consolation, is it not, that the plants have lived to be traded another day? All is not lost yet, Puggly dear: if it seems so then I conjure you to reflect, if you will, on a Chinese aphorism that Jacqua taught me when we were together exploring the Way of the Brush: To gain, you must yield; to grasp, let go; to win, lose…

I have carried on at too great a length (as you can see, the shocks of this morning have not cured me of my chatterbox habits). Ominous portents have continued to accumulate even during the hour I have spent at my desk. The pounding on the roof has grown louder – Mr Markwick believes the authorities are constructing bridges, to connect the factories to the buildings on the other side of Thirteen Hong Street. This will allow them better access to the hongs and sentries will be posted on each roof, to keep the enclave under watch…

… and now, looking up from my desk I see dozens of men fleeing from the hongs. They are all local men – the cleaners and cooks and coolies who worked as servants for the fanquis. They are carrying bundles and bowlas on their heads and running as if from the plague…

… and now someone is pounding on my door… Baburao must have come to the hotel to snatch this letter away… not another word… here I must end.

*

It was unusually hot that afternoon so Neel and several others were sitting in the coolest room in the house – the empty godown that adjoined the kitchen – when one of the khidmatgars came running in.

Arre, come and see what’s happening outside!

Knocking over tumblers of water and sherbet, they jumped to their feet and went racing to the front door. On opening it, they found a stream of Chinese workmen hurrying through the covered corridor, on the far side of the courtyard: they were heading towards the hong’s gates, carrying their mats and clothes, pots and pans.

Amongst the foreigners who sojourned regularly in Canton, Bahram was one of the few who travelled with his own entourage of servants. Since it was far cheaper to employ local men, most of the other merchants relied on their compradors to provide them with cooks, cleaners and coolies – it was these men who were now on the move, all of them at the same time. It was as if they had received warning of an impending eruption and were racing to get away.

Jostling for a place in the throng, Neel found himself shoulder-to-shoulder with one of the coolies who regularly delivered provisions to the Achha Hong. ‘Attay! What for all you-fellow walkee chop-chop?’

‘Yum-chae have talkee – all China-yan must makee go. Can-na stay.’

They were at the Fungtai Hong’s gates now: on stepping into the Maidan, Neel saw that similar streams of coolies and servants were pouring out of all thirteen hongs. Many foreigners had gathered in knots, to watch the spectacle. Neel spotted Baboo Nob Kissin’s saffron-clad figure, standing under one of the flagpoles, and went to join him.

What is happening, Nob Kissin Baboo?

Obvious, isn’t it? said the gomusta. They are moving out all the natives. The enclave is going to be cut off and isolated from the city.

The exodus of the servants took only half an hour. Shortly after it ended several detachments of the local constabulary entered the Maidan. Some of the policemen fanned out, shouting orders and making announcements. Almost at once the barbers began to fold up their portable sunshades. The food vendors doused their fires and the men who hosted tabletop cricket-fights coaxed their insects back into their cages. While the hawkers and hucksters were packing up their gear, the other denizens of Fanqui-town – the touts and twicers and trolls – were also being rounded up and herded out.

In the meanwhile, on the other side of the Maidan, the river too was astir with activity. Several small flotillas of boats were being brought around to face the factories; when the manoeuvre was completed, it was seen that the vessels had been arranged to form a three-tiered barricade: the first and second rows consisted of tea-barges, each with several dozen men on board; the third row was formed by a string of cargo-lighters: they were moored tightly together, forming a continuous line and leaving no room for even the smallest boat to pass between them. Then, as if to make it doubly clear that escape was not to be contemplated, a detachment of soldiers dragged all the foreign-owned boats out of the water and beached them on the embankment.

See, said Baboo Nob Kissin, see how carefully they have planned it? It is as if they want to make sure that not even a frog or mouse will get away.

Neel suggested a walk and Baboo Nob Kissin joined him in taking a turn around Fanqui-town. They quickly discovered that every thoroughfare that provided access to the enclave had been sealed off: Hog Lane, New China Street and Old China Street were all blocked at the mouth, by pickets; no one could pass through without producing the right chop.

Thirteen Hong Street had become a kind of no-man’s-land: the rear entrances of the factories had been bricked up a while ago, and now infantrymen with matchlocks and cartouche-boxes had been stationed along the entire length of the street.

Around sunset, lantern-poles were set up all around the enclave: when the lanterns were lit the Maidan was bathed in an outpouring of light.

The atmosphere in the Achha Hong’s kitchen was subdued that evening, and on the Seth’s instructions Vico, Mesto and the kitchen-chokras spent a good deal of time compiling a complete inventory of the provisions in the pantry. It was found that there was enough daal, rice, sugar, flour and oil to last for a month, but the drinking water was down to a two-day supply.

What do you think they’re planning? said Vico. Do you think they mean to to starve us?

The discussion had scarcely begun when a line of coolies appeared at the front door: it turned out they had been sent by the authorities to disburse rations. No. 1 Fungtai Hong received, as its allotment, sixty live chickens, two sheep, four geese, fifteen tubs of drinking water, a tub of sugar, bags of biscuits, sacks of flour, jars of oil and much else.

I don’t understand, said Vico, scratching his head. Are they trying to fatten us or starve us?

Outside there was no let-up in the activity: through the night the Maidan resounded to conch-shells, gongs, shouted orders and sudden, unnerving cries of K’an-ch’o! and Tseaou-Ch’o! as the officers exhorted their men to stay alert. Sleep was difficult that night.

In the morning, after choti-hazri had been served in the kitchen, Neel went again to look at the Maidan: the transformation was startling to behold – it was as if a carnival-site had been transformed overnight into a parade-ground. All the usual denizens were gone and there were armed men everywhere – five hundred of them or more – marching about or standing watchfully under the flags and pennants of their individual units.

The changes continued as the day progressed: around mid-morning a gang of workmen appeared and set up a tent in the middle of the Maidan. This was then occupied by a group of linkisters, led by Old Tom, who was the seniormost member of his profession.

What exactly were they doing there?

Neel was sent to investigate and came back to report that they had been posted there to deal with any inquiries and complaints the foreigners might have. Should any foreigner need to have any washing done, for instance, he had only to bring it to the tent – the linkisters would make sure that it was properly taken care of.

This made the Seth’s mouth drop open. They are keeping us prisoners and they are worried about our laundry?

Ji, Sethji. They said they do not want any foreigner to suffer the least discomfort.

A short while later several large armchairs were carried out and placed in the shade of the British Hong’s balcony. A number of Co-Hong merchants then trooped into the Maidan and occupied the chairs – there they remained, all day and night, keeping vigil in relays. It was as if they were being made to do penance for their failure to persuade their foreign partners to surrender their contraband.

Now, in ones and twos, a bedraggled little group of travellers came stumbling out into the Maidan: some were European sailors and some were lascars. They had come to Fanqui-town on shore leave the day before: having passed out in the dens of Hog Lane, they had only now awoken to the changed reality of the enclave. Being trapped in Fanqui-town, they were now offering themselves for employment.

Since many of the enclave’s merchants had lost their servants, this news caused great excitement in the factories: seasoned old traders came running half-dressed from the hongs and tripped over each other as they fell upon the mariners. None of the booze-befuddled sailors failed to find employment: in a matter of minutes they were dragged off to the hongs, to serve this master or that.

In the middle of the afternoon when the Maidan was baking in the glare of the sun, Baboo Nob Kissin burst into the Achha Hong with a cry for help: ‘Bachao! Emergency! Rescue measures must be immediately implemented!’

‘What has happened, Baboo Nob Kissin?’

‘Cows! They are suffering from heat-strokes and sun-rashes!’

It turned out that the departure of the enclave’s Chinese employees had deprived Fanqui-town’s small herd of cows of their caretakers; they were now suffering dreadfully in the mid-day heat. Their plight had wrung the heart of the cow-loving milkmaid who lurked within Baboo Nob Kissin’s bosom: he would not rest until Neel had recruited a team of khidmatgars to help him erect a makeshift shelter of bamboo matting over the cattle-pen.

Towards the end of the day a new militia made its appearance in the Maidan: it had been drafted almost entirely from the corps of men who had worked as servants in the foreign factories. Now they were armed with pikes, lances and staves and were smartly dressed in jackets with red cummerbunds. Every man was carrying a rattan shield; on every head was a sturdy conical hat, inscribed with large Chinese characters.

Neel recognized several of the men. He was taken aback by the change in their demeanour: while working as servants they had been scruffily clothed and subservient in manner; now, attired in their new uniforms, they formed as proud a troop as he had ever seen.

For dinner that night Mesto served up a chicken feast: batter-fried marghi na farcha and a savoury alleti-paleti made of gizzards; a creamy marghi na mai vahala with fine shreds of meat; and crisp frilly cutlets.

Why, it’s a burra-khana! said Neel. Is there some reason for it?

Vico nodded: The Seth hasn’t left the hong in days, not since he came back from Mr Dent’s in such a hurry. Mesto has made some of his favourite Parsi dishes in the hope of rousing him from his gloom.

*

Next morning a notice, addressed to Bahram, was delivered to the Achha Hong by Captain Elliott’s personal secretary. It was an urgent summons to a meeting at the Consulate. It could not be ignored so Bahram quickly changed his clothes and made his way to the doorway of the hong.

Although he had not been outside in the last few days, Bahram had observed the activity in the Maidan from his window and had some idea of what to expect – and yet, once at ground level, he realized that the atmosphere of the Maidan had changed even more than he had thought. He had never imagined that a day would come when he would find Fanqui-town empty of swadders and buttoners. Like many other foreigners he had always regarded the enclave’s cheap-jacks as something of a nuisance and had often wished them gone – it had not occurred to him that their absence would leave the enclave so much diminished in spirit.

It was true, of course, that it had not been easy to cross the Maidan when it was a-swarm with mumpers and mucksnipes – but to do it now, under the frowning gaze of guardsmen, was more unpleasant by far. What made it worse still was that Bahram knew by sight many of the guards who were now patrolling the enclave with staves and pikes in hand. One, for instance, was a steward from the Club: it was strangely disconcerting to be stared at, as if you were some kind of escaped jailbird, by a man who had just the other day appeared at your elbow with a plate of roast duck. This was, in a way, the most unsettling part of it: it was as if the hidden mechanisms of Canton’s economy had suddenly been laid bare for all to see; even the lowliest servants and tradesmen – people who had, in the past, fallen over themselves to please the fanquis – now had a look of judgement and appraisal in their eyes.

Nowhere was the cordon of security tighter than around the British Factory: ever since Dent had entered the Consulate, the whole compound had been kept under close watch, to prevent his escape. The Co-Hong merchants too had stationed themselves there, as if to shame their erstwhile partners into giving up their goods. To reach the entrance, Bahram had to step past their chairs; they nodded stiffly at each other, their faces unsmiling and impassive.

On entering the British Factory, Bahram was met by a detachment of sepoys: they were aware of who he was and one of them led him to the Consulate’s library, where the meeting was to be held. This was a large, elegant room with tall shelves of leather-bound books ranged against the walls. At the far end, under a gilded mirror, was a fireplace and above it, a mantelpiece. The room was already full when Bahram arrived: glancing around it, Bahram saw that every member of the Committee was present and many others besides.

Captain Elliott was standing with his back to the mantelpiece, facing the gathering: he was dressed in full naval uniform and cut an imposing, soldierly figure, with a sword at his waist. He knew Bahram by sight and they exchanged nods as Bahram took a seat at the back.

The tip of the Captain’s sword now rattled against the fireplace, as if to call the meeting to order. Holding himself stiffly erect, Captain Elliott said: ‘Gentlemen, I have invited you here today so that you may be informed of the outcome of my attempts to negotiate with Commissioner Lin. I addressed a letter to the provincial authorities two days ago, asking that travel permits be issued to all of you. I stated also that if this was not done, I would reluctantly be driven to the conclusion that the men and ships of my country had been forcibly detained and would act accordingly. I noted further that the peace between our two countries has been placed in imminent jeopardy by the alarming proceedings of the authorities in Canton. At the same time I assured them also that it was my desire to keep the peace. My letter was duly transmitted to the High Commissioner. I am now in receipt of his reply.’

This roused a murmur of surprise, for all present were aware that the provincial authorities had long refused to communicate directly with the British Representative. Several people asked whether Commissioner Lin had addressed his letter to Captain Elliott himself, departing from past custom. The Captain shook his head and said that the reply had been communicated to him indirectly, by lesser officials, in a letter that quoted the Commissioner at great length.

‘I thought’, said Captain Elliott, ‘that you should hear at first hand what Commissioner Lin has to say. So I asked my translator, Mr Robert Morrison, to choose a few passages. He has done so and will read them out aloud.’

Yielding the mantel, the Captain went to sit down while the translator rose to face the gathering. He was a stout, sober-looking man in his late twenties: the son of a famous missionary, he had spent most of his life in China and was regarded as an authority on the language and culture of the country.

Now, producing a few sheets of paper, Mr Morrison smoothed them with the back of his hand. ‘Gentlemen, these are Commissioner Lin’s own words; I have tried to render them to the best of my ability.

‘ “I, High Commissioner Lin, find that the foreigners have, in their commercial intercourse with this country, long enjoyed gratifying advantages. Yet they have brought opium – that pervading poison – to this land, thus profiting themselves to the injury of others. As High Commissioner I issued an edict promising not to delve into the past but only requiring that the opium already here should be entirely delivered up and that further shipments should be effectually stopped from coming. Three days were prescribed within which to give a reply but none was received. As High Commissioner I had ascertained that the opium brought by Dent was comparatively in large quantity and summoned him to be examined. He too procrastinated for three days and the order was not obeyed. In consequence a temporary embargo was placed on the trade and the issuing of permits to go to Macau was stayed. In reading the letter of the English Superintendent I see no recognition of these circumstances, but only a demand for permits. I would ask: While my commands remain unanswered and my summonses unattended, how can permits be granted? Elliott has come into the territory of the Celestial Court as the English Superintendent. But his country, while itself interdicting the use of opium, has yet permitted the seduction and enticement of the Chinese people. The store-ships have long been anchored in the waters of Kwangtung yet Elliott has been unable to expel them. I would ask then what it is that Elliott superintends?’ ”

As the reading proceeded, Bahram had the odd impression that he was listening not to the translator, but to some other voice that had taken command of the young man’s mouth and lips, a voice that was at once completely reasonable and utterly implacable. Bahram was astounded by this: how could the voice of this remote and distant figure, Lin Tse-hsu, have seized control of this youthful Englishman? Was it possible that some men possessed so great a force of character that they could stamp themselves upon their words such that no matter where they were read, or when, or in what language, their own distinctive tones would always be heard?

Who was this man, this Lin Tse-hsu? What gave him this peculiar power, this authority, this unalloyed certainty?

‘ “I have now merely to lay on Elliott the responsibility of speedily and securely arranging these matters: the delivery of the opium and the giving of bonds in obedience to my orders. If he can take the opium that is on board the store-ships and at once deliver it up, it will be my duty to give him encouragement. If he has aught to say, and it be not inconsistent with reason, let him make a clear statement of it. But if he speaks not according to reason and imagines, amid the darkness of night, to abscond with his men, it will show the conviction within him that he can have no face to encounter his fellow men. Will he be able to escape the meshes of the vast and wide net of heaven?” ’

Here, Mr Morrison lowered his notes in some embarrassment: ‘Shall I continue, Captain Elliott?’

Captain Elliott’s face had reddened a little but he answered with a nod: ‘Yes. Please go on.’

‘ “It needs to be enjoined upon Elliott that he should come to have a fear of crime and a purpose to repent and amend; that he should give clear commands to all the foreigners to obey the orders, requiring them to speedily deliver up all the opium that is on board their store-ships. Thenceforward all the foreigners will conduct a legitimate trade, rejoicing in the exhaustless gains thereof. But if, assuming a false garb of ignorance, Elliott voluntarily draws troubles upon himself the evil consequences will be of his own working out, and where shall he find a place of repentance afterwards?’ ”

*

Bahram had shut his eyes and on opening them now he was glad to see that the translator had finished reading and was returning to his seat.

Captain Elliott went again to stand by the mantelpiece. ‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said in his dry, unemphatic way, ‘Commissioner Lin has had his say. There can be no further doubt that he intends to use every possible means to force the surrender of the opium that is currently stored on your ships. He knows very well that it would be impossible for him to seize your cargoes by main force – your ships would have no trouble in beating off an assault by his naval forces. So he intends instead to hold us hostage here until the opium is surrendered. And the truth is there is nothing we can do about it. Escape is clearly impossible: we are surrounded on all sides and under constant surveillance; our boats have been beached so we would not be able to get away even if we were to fight our way down to the river. A failed attempt would lead only to injury and humiliation. Nor at this moment can we contemplate the use of force: we have no warships at our disposal and no troops either. To assemble a suitable expeditionary force will take several months. And even if we did possess the necessary strength, an attack on Canton could not be contemplated at this time because it would place all our lives in jeopardy. Clearly no assault is possible until we are evacuated from this city, and to accomplish that in a manner that ensures the safety and security of all of Her Majesty’s subjects is now my principal concern. I need hardly add that it is perfectly clear at this point that we will not be allowed to leave until the Commissioner’s demands are met.’

Captain Elliott took a deep breath and ran a finger nervously over his moustache. ‘So gentlemen, I am afraid the conclusion is inescapable: you will have to surrender all the opium that is currently stored on your ships.’

There was a stunned silence and then many voices began to speak, all at once.

‘It is robbery, sir, plain robbery. It cannot be tolerated!’

‘Are you aware, Captain Elliott, that you are speaking of goods worth many millions of dollars?’

‘And what is more, they do not even belong to us. You are asking us to steal from our investors!’

Captain Elliott let the voices roll around him for a few minutes. When he broke in it was on a conciliatory note. ‘Gentlemen, I do not for a moment dispute the truth of your arguments: that is not at issue here. The question is merely one of securing our release. The Commissioner has set his trap and we are caught in it; there is only one way in which we can escape his clutches and that is by surrendering the opium: there is no other option.’

This only added to the clamour.

‘No option? For subjects of the world’s most powerful nation?’

‘Why, sir, you are a disgrace to your uniform!’

‘Are we Frogs that we should throw up our arms in surrender at the first hint of trouble?’

With a grimace of resignation Captain Elliott glanced at Mr Slade who rose at once from his chair. The clamour continued as he went to the fireplace, cane in hand.

Then Mr Slade unloosed a roar: ‘Gentlemen! Gentlemen, as you well know, no one is more in sympathy with you than I. But this is an instance when we would do well to recall the words fallaces sunt rerum species. We must pay heed to the immortal Seneca; we must look beyond appearances.’

Bahram understood now that Captain Elliott was far cleverer than he had thought: knowing that he commanded little authority in Fanqui-town, he had evidently taken the trouble to recruit some influential voices to speak in his support.

‘A moment’s reflection will reveal to you, gentlemen,’ said Slade, ‘that by seizing our property under threat the Commissioner is doing us a great service. For he is thereby offering Lord Palmerston exactly what needs in order to declare war: a casus belli.’

At this, the protests began to fade away and quiet descended on the room.

‘I have looked into the matter,’ continued Mr Slade, ‘and even a brief inquiry reveals several instances where the seizure of property belonging to British subjects has provided the grounds for a declaration of war. It happened after the massacre of Amboyna, in 1622, when the Dutch seized the property of the English residents of that island and subjected them to unspeakable tortures. Extensive reparations were later exacted. Similarly, the government of Spain has also been forced to indemnify British subjects for the seizure of their property on at least one occasion. But let me emphasize: I cite these examples only as precedents, because the history of commerce does not exhibit any instance of so extensive a robbery as is being contemplated now by Commissioner Lin – and that too on a specious plea of morality.’

‘But Mr Slade!’ The interjection was from Charles King who had risen to his feet. ‘You have neglected to mention a crucial difference between these precedents and the case at hand – which is that the property in question here consists of smuggled goods. The prohibitions of Chinese law against opium are of nearly forty years standing and their existence, and steadily increasing severity, is well known to all. Need I remind you, by way of comparison, that British law states that any person found harbouring prohibited goods shall forfeit treble their value? Need I add further that British law also states that any person who is found guilty of the offence of smuggling shall suffer death as a felon?’

‘And need I remind you, Mr King,’ said Mr Slade, ‘that we are not in Britain but in China? Nothing remotely comparable to the processes of British law obtains here: no proceedings have been brought; no arrests made.’

‘Ah! So that then is your objection?’ retorted Mr King. ‘Because instead of arresting the contrabandists and seizing the prohibited goods by force of arms, the Commissioner has, after repeated warnings, merely demanded their surrender? Because he has treated the owners not as individual felons but as a community in open insubordination against a regular government? But you would do well to note, sir, that the system of collective responsibility lies at the very heart of Chinese processes of law.’

Mr Slade’s face had turned colour and his voice rose again to a roar. ‘You disgrace yourself sir,’ he thundered, ‘by comparing English law with the whims of despots! If you, as an American, wish to submit to Manchu tyranny that is your business. But you cannot expect free men such as ourselves to join you in accepting the vagaries of Celestial misrule.’

‘But…’

Before Mr King could say any more an outcry ripped through the room.

‘… you’ve said enough already sir…’

‘… don’t even belong here…’

‘… prating Yankee hypocrite…!’

Mr King cast a glance around the room and then, pushing back his chair, he quietly exited the room.

‘… good riddance…!’

‘… grow a long-tail sir, it’d suit you well…’

When silence had been restored Mr Dent rose to his feet and went to join Captain Elliot and Mr Slade at the fireplace. Turning to face the room he said: ‘I am completely of a mind with Mr Slade: Commissioner Lin’s demands amount to a straightforward act of robbery. But as Mr Slade has pointed out, there is a silver lining: if the Commissioner persists in this course he will present Her Majesty’s government with an excellent opportunity to avenge the humiliations to which we have been subjected – and that while also placing our commercial relations with China on a sounder footing. What years of attempted negotiations have failed to achieve will be quickly settled by a few gunboats and a small expeditionary force.’

Mr Slade, not to be outdone, thumped his cane on the floor again: ‘Let me remind you, gentlemen, of what King William the Fourth said when he sent his commissioners to the Canadas: “Remember, the Canadas must not be lost!” Needless to add that the British trade with China is of vastly greater commercial importance to Britain than the Canadas. It reaps an annual revenue of five million pounds and involves the most vital interests of the mercantile, manufacturing, shipping and maritime interests of the United Kingdom. It affects, in an eminent degree, the territorial revenue of our Indian empire. It must not be lost by any wavering imbecility in meeting the present difficulties.’

Now, seeing the tide turn in his favour, Captain Elliott permitted himself a smile: ‘It will not be lost, gentlemen, I can assure you of that.’

Mr Dent nodded: ‘If it comes to a passage of arms, as it surely will, no one who has any familiarity with the state of China’s defences can doubt that our forces will prevail. Nor can there be any doubt that once the outcome is decided the British government will ensure that we are repaid for our losses, and at rates that are to our advantage.’ Now, steepling his fingertips, Dent looked around the library. ‘We are all businessmen here, so I need hardly explain to you the implications of this. In effect we will not be giving up our cargoes to Commissioner Lin.’ Here he paused to flash a smile at his listeners: ‘No, we will be extending him a loan – one that will be repaid at a rate of interest that will serve both as a punishment for his arrogance and a reward for our patience.’

Glancing around the room Bahram saw that many heads were nodding in agreement. He realized suddenly that he was alone in being utterly dismayed by this turn of events. His alarm grew deeper when not a single voice was raised in protest, even when Captain Elliott rose to his feet to say: ‘I take it there are no further objections?’

To speak in public, in English, was not something Bahram had ever liked to do, but he could not stifle the cry that now burst from his throat. ‘Yes, Captain Elliott! I object.’

Captain Elliott’s face hardened as he turned to look in his direction. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he said with a raised eyebrow.

‘You cannot give in, Captain Elliott!’ cried Bahram. ‘Please – you must stand fast. Surely you can see, no? If you give in now, this man will win – this Commissioner. He will win without harming a hair on our heads, without touching a weapon. He will win just by writing these things -’ Bahram pointed at the papers in the translator’s hands – ‘he will win by writing these, what do you call them? Hookums? Chitties? Letters?’

Captain Elliott’s face creased into a smile. ‘I assure you, Mr Moddie, the Commissioner’s victory will be short-lived. As a naval officer I can tell you that battles are not won by letter-writers.’

‘And still he has won, hasn’t he?’ said Bahram. ‘At least this battle is his, is it not?’ He had no other words in which to express his desolation, his sense of betrayal. He could not bear to look at Captain Elliott any more: how could he ever have imagined that this man would somehow conjure up an outcome that was favourable to himself?

Mr Burnham had swivelled around in his chair, and he broke in with a broad smile.

‘But Mr Moddie, don’t you see? The Commissioner’s victory – if such it is – will be purely illusory. We will get back everything we give up, and more. Our investors stand to make handsome profits. It is just a matter of waiting.’

‘That is just it,’ said Bahram. ‘How long will we have to wait?’

Captain Elliott scratched his chin. ‘Perhaps two years. Maybe three.’

‘Two or three years!’

Bahram remembered the angry letters that had been accumulating in his office; he tried to think of how he would explain the circumstances to his investors; he thought of the reactions of his brothers-in-law when the news reached them; he could almost hear them exulting, in their discreet way; he could imagine what they would say to Shireenbai: We warned you; he’s a speculator, you shouldn’t have let him squander your inheritance…

‘Surely your investors would wait, Mr Moddie, would they not?’ Burnham insisted. ‘It is just a question of a little time after all.’

Time!

Every man in the room was looking in Bahram’s direction now. He was too proud to tell them that time was the one thing he did not have; that a delay of two years would mean certain default; that for him the results of Captain Elliott’s betrayal would be ruin, bankruptcy and debtor’s prison.

None of this could be said, not here, not now. Somehow Bahram managed to summon a smile. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Of course. My investors will wait.’

The heads nodded and turned away. Once freed of their scrutiny Bahram tried to sit still, but it was impossible – his limbs would not obey him. Gathering the skirts of his angarkha together, he slipped noiselessly out of the library. With his head down he walked blindly through the Consulate’s corridors and out of the compound. He passed the Co-Hong merchants without sparing them a glance and was halfway across the Maidan when he heard Zadig’s voice behind him: Bahram-bhai! Bahram-bhai!

He stopped. Yes, Zadig Bey?

Bahram-bhai, said Zadig breathlessly. Is it true that Captain Elliott has asked everyone to surrender their opium?

Yes.

And they have agreed to do it?

Yes. They have.

So what will you do, Bahram-bhai?

What can I do, Zadig Bey? Tears had come to his eyes now, and he brushed them away. I will surrender my cargo, like everyone else.

Zadig took hold of his arm and they began to walk towards the river.

It is only money, Bahram-bhai. Soon you will recover your losses.

The money is the least of it, Zadig Bey.

What is it then?

Bahram could not speak; he had to stop and choke back a sob.

Zadig Bey, he said in a whisper, I gave my soul to Ahriman… and it was all for nothing. Nothing.

*

‘Ah Neel! Ah Neel!’

Neel was crossing the Maidan when Young Tom called out to him from the linkisters’ tent: ‘Ah Neel, have got message for you, from Compton. He say tomorrow you come Old China Street, at noon. He meet there.’

‘At the barricade?’

‘Yes. At barricade.’

‘All right.’

The next day, at the appointed time, Neel made his way to Old China Street. The barricade at the far end was a formidable-looking affair, and looked all the more so because the street was deserted and all the shops were shut: it was made of sharpened bamboo staves and the soldiers who were deployed around it were armed with matchlocks and cutlasses.

Neel’s steps slowed involuntarily as he walked up to the picket: on the far side, on Thirteen Hong Street, a large crowd of curious onlookers had gathered. The spectators were packed closely together and Neel would not have caught sight of Compton if he hadn’t held up a hand to wave: ‘Hei! Neel! Ah Neel! Here!’

Compton was carrying a wooden chop, with a row of characters painted on it. When this was presented to the officer on duty, the barricade parted and Neel was allowed to go through.

After he had stepped across, Neel said: ‘What’s this, Compton? How is it that I was allowed to pass?’

‘Something important. Gam you will see.’

They stepped into the print-shop and Compton opened a locked cabinet. Taking out a sheet of paper, he handed it to Neel. ‘Here, Ah Neel; look at this.’

It was a list of eighteen names, each with a number beside it: the lettering was in Chinese, but there were annotations alongside each entry, in English. Neel saw at a glance that the names were those of Canton’s leading foreign merchants.

‘What do the numbers mean, Compton?’

‘This how much opium they say have on their ships. You think is true ah?’

The first name was that of Lancelot Dent; his declared stock was by far the largest, numbering over six thousand crates. The second name was Bahram’s and the figure beside it was 2,670 chests.

Seeing Neel hesitate, Compton said: ‘Cheng-mahn, Ah Neel, you must be honest. Is this all opium he has got on his ship?’

‘I can only guess,’ said Neel, ‘for I don’t know the details. But my feeling is that the figure is right. I heard our purser say once that the Seth lost a little more than a tenth of his cargo in storm damage. Another time he mentioned that over three hundred crates had been lost. So if you work it out, the tally would be right.’

Compton nodded. ‘It is a big loss for him – almost a million silver taels, cha-mh-do.’

‘Really?’ Neel gasped. ‘As much as that?’

‘Hai-bo! Big loss.’ Compton tapped the sheet of paper. ‘And what about others? Wa me ji – anyone else?’

Only one other name on the list was of interest to Neel: B. Burnham. The figure listed beside the name was relatively small:

1,000.

Neel smiled, exulting inwardly: here at last was an opportunity to exact a small measure of revenge for all he had suffered at the hands of Mr Burnham. ‘This number is wrong,’ he said.

‘Dim-gaai? How you know that, Ah Neel?’

‘Because Mr Burnham’s accountant is my friend. He told me Mr Burnham’s stock this year is bigger even than Seth Bahramji’s.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. I’m sure of it.’

‘Dak! I will see that the Commissioner knows.’

*

As the days passed, sleep became harder and harder for Bahram. No matter how carefully the khidmatgars closed the shutters, the bright lights in the Maidan somehow filtered through, throwing shadows across his bedroom. When patrolling soldiers or guardsmen trooped past the Fungtai Hong, their ghostly reflections would flicker over his ceiling and his walls. Their voices too were impossible to shut out: even with the windows closed, the echoes of their cries and commands would waft through the room.

Every few hours Bahram would wake to the din of gongs and cymbals and lie still, watching ghostly shadows and listening to voices. Sometimes, the sounds seemed very close: he would hear footsteps in the corridors and whispers around his bed: there were moments when he found it hard not to reach for the bell-rope. But Vico was away now – he had gone to the Anahita, to arrange the transfer of her cargo to the Bogue, where the collection depot had been set up – and other than him there was no one that he could have talked to.

Even laudanum didn’t help: if anything it made the sounds seem louder and the dreams more vivid. One night, after a copious dose, he dreamt that Chi-mei had come to the Achha Hong to see him. This was something she had often threatened to do: it happened all the time, she said, flower-girls were often smuggled into factories. They dressed up in men’s gowns and braided their hair and no one was any the wiser.

In Bahram’s dream, it was a day like any other in Fanqui-town: he was dressing to go the Club, in the evening, when Vico came into his bedroom.

Patrao, a Chinese gentleman has come to see you. One Li Sin-saang.

Who is he? Do I know him?

I don’t know, patrao. I don’t think he’s been here before. But he said it was important.

All right then, show him into the daftar.

The daftar was empty, of course, at that time of day: the munshi was down in his cubicle and the khidmatgars had finished cleaning up. Bahram went to one of the big armchairs and sat down. Soon the door opened and a short, slight figure in a round cap and panelled gown came in.

The light in the daftar wasn’t bright enough to illuminate the face, so Bahram did not recognize her immediately. With a formal bow, he said: ‘Chin-chin Li Sin-saang.’

She said nothing until she was sure Vico was gone. Then she burst into peals of laughter. ‘Mister Barry too muchi foolo.’

He was thunderstruck. ‘Chi-mei? What for come this-place? Chi-mei have done too muchi bad thing.’

Chi-mei paid no attention: picking up a lamp, she went around the daftar examining the objects that had accumulated in it. It was clear from her expression that not many of them met with her approval.

‘Allo olo thing. What-for Mister Barry puttee here?’

The tone was comforting in its familiarity: she often spoke to him like this, in a register that was at once querulous and indulgent, as though she were trying to correct a child. He laughed.

The only object that seemed to please her was his desk, with its many locked drawers. She looked it over carefully, then tapped one of the drawers. ‘What thing have got inside?’

Bahram pulled out a bunch of keys and opened the drawer. Inside was a large lacquered box.

‘That box Chi-mei give Mister Barry, no?’

‘Yes, Chi-mei have give that-thing.’

‘What-for Mister Barry keepee here? No likee?’

‘Likee. Likee.’

She lost interest in the desk and looked around the room again. ‘What-place Mister Barry sleepee?’ she said. ‘Here bed no have got.’

‘Sleepee bedroom,’ he said, pointing involuntarily. ‘But Chi-mei can-na go.’

Ignoring him she opened the door and crossed the corridor. He followed her into the bedroom, haplessly protesting. She paid him no mind: on seeing the bed, with its silken cover, she lay down and unbuttoned the fastenings of her gown. The sight of her breasts, emerging slowly from within the gown, mesmerized him. He went to lie beside her, but when he reached for her she changed her mind.

‘Mister Barry bed no good. More better go boat. Come now, Mister Barry. We go boat. Come riverside. Ha-loy!’

‘Why?’ he said. ‘Chi-mei here now. More better stay.’

‘No,’ she insisted. ‘Time to go river now. Come, Mister Barry. Here no good.’

He was sorely tempted but something held him back. ‘No. Not time now. Can-na go.’ He reached for her hand. ‘Stay here, Chi-mei; stay with Mister Barry.’

There was no answer and when he looked towards the window, she was gone: the shutters were open and the curtains were fluttering in the breeze.

He woke up in a sweat and found that the window had indeed blown open. He got out of bed and pushed it hurriedly shut.

He was shaking; to go back to bed was impossible in this state. He lit a candle, found his key-ring and carried it into the daftar. He went to his desk and unlocked the drawer: sure enough, the lacquer box that Chi-mei had given him was lying within, covered in dust. He took it out and wiped the dust away before removing the lid. Inside was a finely carved ivory pipe, a metal needle, and a small octagonal box, also made of ivory. The box was empty but Bahram remembered that at the start of the season Vico had brought him a container of prepared opium, as a sample: it was locked in another drawer. He found the key and opened the drawer: the container was still there.

He gathered everything up in his arms and went to his room. He placed the candle on his bedside table, opened the container and scooped up a droplet of the brown paste with the tip of the needle. Then he roasted the opium over the flame, and when it began to sizzle he placed it in the bowl of his pipe and took a deep draught.

When the last wisp of smoke was gone he blew out the candle and lay back against his pillows. He knew he would sleep well that night; he could not understand why he hadn’t thought of doing this before.

The next day when he woke, it was well past the usual time. He could hear the khidmatgars conferring outside his door in hushed, worried voices. Rising quickly from the bed, he hid the pipe, the lacquered box and the container of opium inside one of his trunks. Then, opening the windows, he let the room air out for a couple of minutes before letting the khidmatgars in.

One of them said: Sethji, Mesto is in the daftar. He has served your hazri.

The thought of food made Bahram faintly nauseous. I’m not hungry, he said. Tell Mesto to take it away. All I want is chai.

Sethji, the munshi wanted to know if you have any work for him today. He said there were some letters to be answered.

No. Bahram shook his head. Tell the munshi there’s no work for him today.

Ji, Sethji.

Bahram spent most of the morning in a chair by the window, looking in the direction of the river, gazing at the spot where Chi-mei’s boat had once been moored.

Around mid-day some lascars came to the Maidan and put on a display of acrobatics, climbing up the flagpoles and doing tricks on top. The spectacle pleased Bahram and he thought of asking the shroffs to give the fellows some baksheesh on his behalf. But to get up and pull the bell-rope was too much of an effort and he forgot about it. In the afternoon it was very hot and he decided to take a siesta – but when he went to lie down, it occurred to him that he would rest better after a pipe. So he fetched the paraphernalia and smoked a little before stretching himself out on his bed.

He had never felt so peaceful.

The days and nights began to melt into each other, and sometimes, when the chimes from the chapel came to his ears, it amazed him to think that this bell had once ruled his life.

One day a khidmatgar announced that Zadig had come to see him. Bahram did not much feel like making conversation, but there was nothing to be done for Zadig had already been shown up to the daftar. He changed his clothes and washed his face before crossing the corridor. But despite all that Zadig seemed to be shocked by his appearance.

Bahram-bhai! What has happened to you? You’ve become so thin.

Me? Bahram looked down at himself. Really? But I’ve been eating so much!

This was not a falsehood: nowadays a couple of mouthfuls were enough to make him feel that he was stuffed to bursting.

And you’re so pale, Bahram-bhai. Your khidmatgars tell me you hardly ever leave your rooms. Why don’t you go out more often, take a few turns around the Maidan?

Bahram was nonplussed by this. Go outside? But why? It’s so hot out there. It’s much better here, isn’t it?

Bahram-bhai, there’s always something interesting happening in the Maidan.

The daftar’s window was open and turning towards it now Bahram heard a sound like that of something solid being hit by a plank of wood. He rose and went to the window. A game of cricket was under way in the Maidan: he saw to his surprise that there were several Parsis among the players. The batsman was Dinyar Ferdoonjee, dressed in white trousers and cap.

Zadig had come to stand beside him: Where did Dinyar learn to play cricket?

Here. I can’t think where else he could have learnt.

See, Bahram-bhai. There’s always something going on down there. You should step out and join in. It will be a change.

The thought of going out filled Bahram with a sense of deep fatigue.

What does it have to do with me, Zadig Bey? he said. I know nothing about cricket.

But still…

They watched for a while in silence, and then Bahram said: We’re old men now, aren’t we, Zadig Bey? It’s these fellows who are the future – young men like Dinyar.

Down below there was a burst of applause: Dinyar had hit a ball all the way across the Maidan.

The boy looked splendidly self-confident, absolutely masterful as he leant on his bat and surveyed the field.

Bahram could not help feeling a twinge of envy.

When they make their future, do you think they will remember us, Zadig Bey? Do you think they will remember what we went through? Will they remember that it was the money we made here, the lessons we learnt and the things we saw that made it all possible? Will they remember that their future was bought at the price of millions of Chinese lives?

Down below Dinyar was running furiously between the wickets.

And what was it all for, Zadig Bey? Was it just for this: so that these fellows could speak English, and wear hats and trowsers, and play cricket?

Bahram pulled the window shut, and the sounds faded away.

Perhaps that is what Ahriman’s kingdom is, isn’t it, Zadig Bey? An unending tamasha in a desert of forgetting and emptiness.