River of Smoke

Eighteen

June 5, House No. 1, American Hong, Canton

Queridisima Puggliosa, I feel as if an epoch had passed since I last sat down to write to you. During these last six weeks it was impossible for us even to think of corresponding with the outside world – we were warned that any courier who was caught carrying letters for us would be severely punished and under the circumstances it seemed wrong to write letters. Only a most unfeeling person would want anyone to risk the bastinado for the sake of their silly ramblings, wouldn’t they, Puggly dear?

But that is all in the past now. Most of the opium has been rendered up and the Commissioner, in turn, has kept his word: from tomorrow onwards everyone who wishes to leave Canton will be allowed to do so – excepting only the sixteen foreigners who are considered the worst offenders. Zadig Bey will be leaving in a day or two and since I have elected to stay behind he has offered to carry my letters – so here I am, once again at my desk.

So much has happened in the interim, Puggly dear, that I do not quite know where to start. For me the greatest change was that I had to move out of Mr Markwick’s hotel. On the day I last wrote to you, Fanqui-town lost all its workers, coolies and servants – every Chinese employed in the enclave was told to depart by the authorities. After that it became impossible for poor Mr Markwick to carry on and he decided to close down.

You can imagine the spot this put me in: I could not think where I would go. But I need not have worried: Charlie came to see me and offered me a room in his house (is he not the kindest man in existence?). I thought I should pay rent, but he would not hear of it and asked only that I make him some paintings, which I gladly undertook to do. Since then I have been installed in the American Hong, in a room twice as large and far more luxurious than the one I had before: and nor am I deprived of the view that I had at Markwick’s, for here too I have a window that looks out on the Maidan! I have indeed been singularly fortunate: I miss Jacqua terribly, of course, but I do see him from time to time, across the barricades, and sometimes, when it is possible, he sends me things with one of the linkisters – jujubes and candied fruits. And to be living with Charlie is compensation of no small order: our time together has passed so agreeably that I am loath to see it end.

You have no doubt heard rumours about the privations we have had to endure during the last few weeks. You must not believe a word of it, Puggly dear. We have been lavishly supplied with food and drink – the lack of servants is the worst of the hardships we have had to suffer, and if you ask me, this has been in truth a most salutary thing. I can scarcely tell you how much pleasure it gives me to walk around the enclave and see these fanqui merchants, who have all grown rich and lazy on the fruits of their crimes, having to swab their own floors, make their own beds, boil eggs amp;c. amp;c. It is perhaps the only justice they will ever meet with.

You would not believe how helpless, indeed desperate, some of them are: why, just the other day, a fat old fellow came waddling after me in his sleeping gown and positively begged me to become his footman. Why no, sir, said I, drawing myself to my full height. I am the King’s man and would not dream of serving anyone else.

I find endless amusement in watching the scenes that pass between the fanquis and the linkisters (who take it in turns to sit under a tent in the Maidan, right opposite my window). The linkisters have been instructed to address all our complaints and inquiries, and they are beset by fanquis at all times of day and night: Mr A. has dirtied his shirt and wants it to be sent to the dhobi; Mr B. is enraged because he has not received his daily ration of spring water; Mr C. has split his pantaloons while sweeping the floor and will not rest until the rent is sewn up by a tailor; Mr D. demands a basket of oranges and Mr E. swears that his rooms have been invaded by rats, and all his foodstuffs have been carried away, so he must instantly be given three hams and five loaves of bread. Now Mr F. arrives, in a great sweat, and declares he has seen a calf wandering through his corridor; he promises that if it happens again he will let fly with his blunderbuss, consequences be d-d; then comes Mr G. to complain of being insulted by a company of guardsmen; he swears that if the offenders are not suitably chastised he will annihilate them all with his whangee. To all this the linkisters listen with infinite patience, only breaking in to say from time to time: ‘Hae yaw? How can do so? Mandarin too muchi angry, make big-big bobbery…’ They are the most good-natured of fellows and do their utmost to hide their amusement.

One of the few merchants whose establishment has remained intact through this time is Mr Bahram Moddie, the Seth from Bombay (he travels in his own ship and is thus able to take his staff wherever he goes). Mr Moddie has been one of the greatest losers in the surrendering of opium (more than a tenth of all the chests are said to be his), and he is so downcast that he seldom emerges from his private quarters – even Zadig Bey, who is one of his oldest friends, hardly ever sees him any more.

But Mr Moddie’s staff are a lively bunch, and through these last few weeks they have held a kind of open house, welcoming everyone who wants to eat at their table. I cannot tell you what a boon this has been to me, Puggly dear, for they have a peerless khansama and the food is unfailingly excellent – not till I ate at their table did I realize how much I miss my dholl and karibat!

The company too is most congenial: Mr Moddie’s purser goes by the name of Vico and he is a jolly kind of fellow, always thinking of amusing ways to ‘time-pass’ (he has been away lately, supervising the transfer of Mr Moddie’s opium to the authorities, and is much missed). Mr Moddie’s munshi is an intriguing, rather mysterious man: he is a Bengali and claims to be from Tippera – but his Bangla accent speaks of a pure-bred Calcuttan, although he will not on any account admit this. (Speaking of Calcuttans I happened to mention to him that a Calcutta-born Miss, by the name of Paulette Lambert, was in the vicinity – and I swear, my dear Ranee of Pugglipur, that your name could not have been unknown to him. At the sound of it he turned quite pale, or at least as pale as his complexion would allow!)

Amongst those who frequent Mr Moddie’s kitchen there are several Parsis and one of them is a most fetching young man by the name of Dinyar Ferdoonjee. We were thinking one night of things we might do to keep ourselves entertained and it occurred to me to suggest that we stage a play – and before we knew it, there we were putting on ‘Anarkali: The Doomed Nautch-Girl of Lahore’ (as you may know, Puggly dear, this was my mother’s favourite role, and I have always dreamt of playing it).

I wish I could tell you, my sweet cherie, how much fun we had! I made all my own costumes and the munshi took the role of the cruel old Emperor and played it exceedingly well (I must say, for a mofussil munshi he is rather well-informed about courtly etiquette). And Dinyar made a most splendid Jahangir, a perfect foil for my Anarkali: he is an excellent singer and dancer so I put in a couple of new songs, which we sang while chasing each other around a tree (it was just a pillar, of course). Such a grand old time did we have that Dinyar says that when he gets back to Bombay he will start a theatre company!

Dinyar is indeed a whirlwind of energy. One day he saw some Englishmen playing cricket in the Maidan and succeeded in persuading them to teach him this game (he says he has seen it being played by the British in Bombay, but it is impossible for a native to learn it there, since they are not allowed into the right clubs). Dinyar has become so proficient at the game that he has now taught it to several other Achhas and a week or two ago they actually challenged the British Hong to a match. But at the last minute they found themselves a man short – and you may not believe it, my dear Pug-wugs, but it was none other than your poor Robin who was dragooned into making up the deficit!

I need hardly tell you, Puggly dear, that I loathe most games and none more than cricket. But I could hardly refuse my Jahangir, especially when he put his arms around me and cajoled me in the most beseeching tones. He promised besides that he would keep me out of harm’s way and for the most part it passed off quite peacefully: for the life of me I don’t know how people can abide this game – nothing ever seems to happen (the Chinese guardsmen, I might add, were astonished by the goings-on and some of them even asked if we were being paid to run after the balls – they could not conceive of why else we would, which speaks rather well for them I think). But there came a moment when I heard everyone shouting ‘Catch, Robin, catch!’ I looked up at the sky and what should I see but a nasty little ball absolutely hurtling in my direction. My first thought was to run away of course, but I couldn’t very well do that since I had my back to the cattle-pen. So I stood my ground and did what Jacqua had taught me to do – I emptied my mind of everything but the object of my desire… and lo! I managed somehow to snatch the vile little projectile out of the air! It was apparently a great thing to have done for it was the other side’s leading batsman who had struck it – so to me went the credit of seizing not just his ball but also his wicket, thereby bringing victory to the Achhas. Dinyar was hugely chuffed and has sworn that he will set up a cricket club for natives when he returns to Bombay – and I do hope he does. Can you imagine, my dear Puggly, how very funny it would be to watch bands of Achhas racing around in the hot sun in pursuit of each other’s balls and wickets?

But you must not think, Puggly dear, that all my time has been spent on frivolities – it could scarcely be so when one is living under the roof of so high-minded a person as Charlie King! He would be mortified to hear me say so (for he is the most modest of men) but I am convinced that he is indeed a great man – for it does take greatness, I think, to stand resolutely against your own people, especially when you are alone, and especially when you know that even history will not be kind to you, since you will have forever given the lie to all the claims with which the High and the Mighty will try to exonerate themselves.

Oddly enough, I do believe that the only person who truly appreciates Charlie’s courage and honesty is the High Commissioner. But perhaps it is not surprising that this should be so – for I suspect Commissioner Lin is in a position not dissimilar to Charlie’s. His measures have not been universally popular, even among the Chinese, and I am told that he has made legions of enemies for himself. There are a great many people in this province who have grown rich on opium and I am sure they must revile the Commissioner just as so many of the fanquis revile Charlie. This perhaps is the bond between them: in a world where corruption and greed are the rule, they are both incorruptible – and it is not surprising that this should be hateful in the eyes of their peers.

Whatever the reason, there can be no doubt that there is indeed a bond between Commissioner Lin and Charlie. The Commissioner has even issued a public commendation to Charlie and it was for a while posted all around Fanqui-town (you can imagine the effect of this on Mr Dent and his ilk!).

When the destruction of the surrendered opium started, a few days ago, Charlie was one of the few foreigners who was present at the event. He described the scene to me in the most vivid detail and I was so taken with it that I have resolved to make a painting of it – I have already made a few sketches and Charlie tells me they are perfectly accurate!

The scene is set in a small village, not far from the Bogue. It is a flat, marshy place, intercut with creeks and surrounded by rice paddies. A field has been marked out, and trenches have been dug; the crates are stacked nearby as they arrive. The Commissioner is determined to prevent pilferage so the perimeter is guarded day and night and everyone who works there is searched, before they enter and when they leave.

Day by day the stocks of opium accumulate: the crates rise by the hundred until they reach a total of twenty thousand three hundred and eighty-one. Their combined value is almost beyond human imagining: Zadig Bey says that to buy it you would need hundreds of tons of silver! (Can you conceive of that, Puggly dear – a hillock of silver? And all this opium was intended for sale in a single season: does it not make the mind boggle?)

But there it is, this great haul of opium, and the day comes for Commissioner Lin to set in motion the process of its destruction. And on the eve of the ceremony, what does the Commissioner elect to do? Why, he sits down to write a poem – it is a prayer addressed to the God of the Sea asking that all the animals of the water be protected from the poison that will soon be pouring in.

When the time is right he goes to sit in the shade of a raised pavilion. From there he gives the signal for the work to start. The chests are opened, balls of opium are broken up and mixed with salt and lime and then thrown into the water-filled trenches; when the opium melts the sluices are opened and the opium is allowed to drain into the river. It is hard work: five hundred men, working long hours, can destroy only about three hundred chests a day.

Such was the scene that met Charlie’s eyes when he went to the place. The Commissioner was seated in his pavilion and presently Charlie was taken there to meet him. This was the first time Charlie had been face-to-face with him and he was startled to find that the Commissioner was not at all the man his enemies had portrayed him to be: his manner was lively to the point of being vivacious, Charlie said, and he looked young for his age; he was short and rather stout, with a smooth full face, a thin black beard and sharp, black eyes. After exchanging a few pleasantries, the Commissioner asked Charlie who, amongst the Co-Hong merchants, he considered the most honest. When Charlie was unable to produce an immediate answer he burst into peals of laughter!

Is it not a most wonderful tableau, my dearest Puggly? I am of a mind to call it: ‘Commissioner Lin and the River of Opium’.

Charlie was in transports of delight to see the drug being transformed, as he said, into heaps of ashes instead of kindling the fires of lust and frenzy in the brothels of a hundred cities. But his joy is tinged with a terrible sadness for he knows that the Commissioner’s victory will not be long-lived: already several English and American battleships are on their way to China, and there can be little doubt of what the outcome will be if it comes to war. Charlie is so worried that he has written a long letter, addressed to Captain Elliot. It is, in my eyes, a most marvellous piece of writing, and being the inveterate copyist that I am, I could not refrain from noting down a few passages (I will slip them in with this letter when I send it off).

Charlie is often terribly downcast when he thinks of what lies ahead for he thinks that a great cataclysm is coming. Whether that is true or not I do not know – and nor, honestly, do I care. I am persuaded that this is a moment that should be savoured and celebrated. For it is a rare thing in this world, is it not, Puggly dear, when a couple of good men prevail against the forces arrayed against them?

As always, my dear Puggly, I have been overly prolix – it is a besetting sin. But I cannot end this letter without mentioning a very odd thing that happened last week.

One morning a bright red envelope, of the kind that is used in China for invitations, was found on the doorstep of this house. It was addressed to me, in English, and it was (or purported to be) from none other than Mr Chan (or Ah Fey or whatever you will). This is what it said:

‘Dear Mr Chinnery, I have had to leave town on some pressing business and I do not know when I will be back. It is a pity because I had put together some good flowers for you. But you should know the golden camellia was not among them. That is because this plant does NOT exist. It was invented by Mr William Kerr. Like so many things that are said about China it is a HOAX. Mr Kerr made it up so that his sponsors would send him more money, that is all. The pictures were made by a painter called Alantsae. Mr Kerr taught him about botanical paintings. I know because I was their family servant and gardener – it was Alantsae’s mother who sent me to work for Mr Kerr. I wanted to have the pleasure of telling Mr Penrose this myself, but I do not know if that will happen now.

‘I bid you farewell. Lenny Chan (Lynchong).’

Frankly, Puggly dear, I don’t know what to make of this and will not try. It is all so very singular – and yet perhaps it is not so for Canton.

Flowers and opium, opium and flowers!

It is odd to think that this city, which has absorbed so much of the world’s evil, has given, in return, so much beauty. Reading your letters, I am amazed to think of all the flowers it has sent out into the world: chrysanthemums, peonies, tiger lilies, wisteria, rhododendrons, azaleas, asters, gardenias, begonias, camellias, hydrangeas, primroses, heavenly bamboo, a juniper, a cypress, climbing tea-roses and roses that flower many times over – these and many more. Were it in my power I would enjoin upon every gardener in the world that they remember, when they plant these blooms, that all of them came to their gardens by grace of this one city – this crowded, noisome, noisy, voluptuous place we call Canton.

One day all the rest will be forgotten – Fanqui-town and its Friendships, the opium and the flower-boats; even perhaps the paintings (for I doubt that anyone will ever love these pictures (and painters) as much as I do; this is, after all, a bastard art, neither sufficiently Chinese nor European, and thus likely to be displeasing to many).

But when all the rest is forgotten the flowers will remain, will they not, Puggly dear?

The flowers of Canton are immortal and will bloom for ever.

*

To Charles Elliot Esq., amp;c amp;c.

For nearly forty years, British merchants, led on by the East India Company, have been driving a trade in violation of the highest laws and the best interests of the Chinese empire. This course has been pushed so far as to derange its currency, to corrupt its officers, and ruin multitudes of its people. The traffic has become associated in the politics of the country, with embarrassments and evil omens; in its penal code, with the axe and the dungeon; in the breasts of men in private life, with the wreck of property, virtue, honour and happiness. All ranks, from the Emperor on the throne, to the people of the humblest hamlets, have felt its sting. To the fact of its descent to the lowest classes of society we are frequent witnesses; and the Court gazettes are evidence that it has marked out victims for disgrace and ruin even among the Imperial kindred.

Justice forbids that the steps taken by the Chinese, to arrest a system of wrongs practised on them, under the mask of friendship, be made pretence for still deeper injuries. Interest condemns the sacrifice of the lawful and useful trade with China, on the altar of illicit traffic. Still more loudly does it warn against the assumption of arms in an unjust quarrel, against – not the Chinese government only – but the Chinese people. Strong as Great Britain is she cannot war with success, or even safety, upon the consciences – the moral sense – of these three or four hundred million people.

The opium trade has dishonoured the name of God among the heathen more extensively than any other traffic of ancient or modern times. ‘The flowing poison’, the ‘vile dirt’, ‘the dire calamity brought upon us by foreigners’, these, and a hundred like them, are the names it bears, in the language of this empire. Its foreign origin has been bruited everywhere, and its introducers and their character branded in every city and hamlet throughout China.

What is it that has made the provinces of Malwa, Bihar, and Benares the chief localities of the opium cultivation? Why are vast tracts of land in those districts, formerly occupied with other articles, now covered with poppies? Although so wide-spread, why is the culture still rapidly on the increase?

The traffic is the creature of the East India Company, itself the organ of the British government. The revenues of India, the opium branch included, have repeatedly received the sanction of Parliament. The opium manufacture, and the trade inseparable from it, have received the highest sanction bestowable in one country, on an article proscribed in another. The British merchant went out from the high places of legislation to attend the sales of the East India Company. Authority, example, sympathy, were on his side; what cared he for the interdicts of the strange, despotic, repulsive government of China? Misled by Parliament he was confirmed in error by the decisions of society. No order of society was proof against this illusion. Will not the Stanhopes, the Noels, the Harrises take up this argument and tell the people of England that in the application of the principle of benevolence they are below the Chinese? Ought not this uprising of a Pagan empire against the demon of seduction, to react with power on Christians in the west? My oldest friend in China – a man familiar with the language – says: ‘I have talked with many hundreds about the use of the drug, and never found one, to defend, or even palliate it.’ Among all its victims it has no advocate. In England the licensed and gilded gin-palace courts every passer-by; the Chinese smoker threads his way to his secret haunt guilty and ashamed.

It is estimated that there are 80,000 chests of the drug in existence. Under this enormous accumulation, it is evident that the cultivation of the poppy, throughout India, should immediately cease. The lands which have been engrossed by this deleterious culture, should be returned to uses not incompatible with human life, virtue, and happiness.

Already, we are told, the use of the drug is insinuating itself into the habits of a morbid portion of Western society. (The consumption of Great Britain for 1831-32 was over 28,000 lbs per annum.) Such a taste once spread and fixed, by transmission through one or two generations, how shall it be eradicated?

It is undeniable that some of the most important ends of Providence in our day, are being brought about by the agency of national tastes. The manner in which England and China are and have long been, bound together by the taste for tea is a good instance. And let it be remembered that the same Providence which uses these peculiar predilections as means of national friendship can turn them also to purposes of social chastisement. May it not happen that any such retributions – the recoil of a depraved taste, the reaction of temptation on the tempter – await the Western states in commerce with China.

The energies and truth of God go with us in every effort to hasten the reign of universal amity and freedom; but that era must be coeval with the time when ‘nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more.’

I am, dear Sir

Ever truly yours

C. W. King

*

Suddenly one day it was over. The barricades came down and the shops on New and Old China Street began to open their doors and shutters.

But Fanqui-town was almost deserted now: only the sixteen merchants who had been refused permission to leave remained, with their employees.

The last period of detention, amidst the forlorn and empty factories, had been a trial for all who remained; there was great relief in the Achha Hong when it came to be known that the surrender of opium had finally been completed and everyone would soon be allowed to leave.

The day before their departure Neel did a last, solitary round of the enclave, bidding goodbye to Asha-didi and exchanging chin-chins with the linkisters, some of whom had become good friends. His last stop was at the print-shop: Compton led him into the inner courtyard and called for tea and snacks. They talked for a while of the still-unfinished Chrestomathy and then Compton handed him an envelope: ‘Have got one last proof for you, Neel. It is a present.’

‘What is it?’

‘Letter.’

‘But who is it from? And who is the writer?’

‘Letter is from Lin Zexu to Queen of England.’

Neel started in surprise. ‘Commissioner Lin has written a letter to Queen Victoria?’

‘Haih! Translation also has been made and printed. Ho-yih can read later.’

‘I will,’ said Neel, rising to go. ‘Thank you, Compton. Do-jeh!’

Mh sai!

At the door of the print-shop Neel came to a stop. ‘Listen, Compton, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.’

‘Yes, Ah Neel. Me-aa?’

‘That day, when you introduced me to your teacher, Chang Lou-si, you said something that puzzled me.’

‘What was it?’

‘You said that you had found out something about Seth Bahramji – about the bad things he has been responsible for.’

Compton nodded. ‘Yes. We found out because of Ho Lao-kin. You remember? Man who was executed?’

‘Yes.’

‘Before he die he very afraid, pale-face-white-lips, like gwai is after him. He talk a lot, lo-lo-so-so. Say many thing. He tell that it was Mister Moddie who first give him opium – that how he start in the business. That time Mister Moddie have woman here in Canton – aunt of Ho Lao-kin. Later he have son with her, ne? You savvy no-savvy all this, Ah Neel?’

‘I’ve heard something about it. Go on.’

‘This boy, when he grow up, he need work. Ho Lao-kin take him to Macau – help him join smuggler gang. He work for them some years but then he have trouble and want to leave. He ask his father to take to his country, but father say no, must stay here. Then things become very bad for him. Gang boss want to kill him, so he run away, come to Guangzhou, hide with his mother. Gang-men catch Ho Lao-kin and he tell them boy is with mother, on boat. They go there to catch him, but he is gone, ne? Only mother there.’

‘And then?’

‘Then they kill her and leave on boat.’

Compton pursed his lips in disapproval and shook his head: ‘Mister Moddie not good; he have done too much harm. Low-low sek-sek, you should not work for him Ah Neel. Yauh-jyuh – watch out, all who are close to him will suffer for what he has done.’

Neel fell silent as he considered this. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ he said. ‘But you know, Compton, it is also true that amongst those who are close to Seth Bahramji there are very few who do not love him. And I am not one of them – for if there is one thing I know about the Seth it is that he has a large and generous heart. This is what makes him different from the Burnhams and Dents and Ferdoonjees and the rest of them. You mark my words, those men will lose nothing in the end. It is Seth Bahramji who will be the biggest loser – and the reason for that is just this: he has a heart.’

Compton smiled: ‘You are loyal Neel. Sih-sih.’

‘We Achhas are a loyal people – it is perhaps our greatest failing. It is a sin amongst us to break faith with those whose salt we have eaten.’

‘Haih-bo?’ Compton laughed. ‘I will feed you salt when I see you next Neel.’

‘No need,’ said Neel smiling. ‘I have eaten your salt already.’

Compton smiled and bowed.

Joi-gin Ah Neel. Joi-gin Compton. Joi-gin.

*

It was not till later that night, after all his things had been packed, that Neel opened the envelope Compton had given him. He read the Commissioner’s letter to Queen Victoria several times, and then reached for a page of his unfinished Chrestomathy. Turning it over, on impulse, he translated a few passages into Bengali.

‘The Way of Heaven is fairness to all; it does not suffer us to harm others in order to benefit ourselves. Men are alike in this all the world over: that they cherish life and hate what endangers life. Your country lies twenty thousand leagues away; but the Way of Heaven holds good for you as for us, and your instincts are not different from ours; for nowhere are there men so blind as not to distinguish between what brings life and what brings death, between what brings profit and what does harm.

‘Our Heavenly Court treats all within the Four Seas as one great family; the goodness of our great Emperor is like Heaven, that covers all things. There is no region so wild or so remote that he does not cherish and tend it. Ever since the port of Canton was first opened, trade has flourished. For some hundred and twenty or thirty years the natives of the place have enjoyed peaceful and profitable relations with the ships that come from abroad.

‘But there is a class of evil foreigner that makes opium and brings it for sale, tempting fools to destroy themselves, merely in order to reap profit. Formerly the number of opium smokers was small; but now the vice has spread far and wide and the poison has penetrated deeper and deeper. For this reason we have decided to inflict very severe penalties on opium-dealers and opium-smokers, in order to put a stop for ever to the propagation of this vice.

‘It appears that this poisonous article is manufactured by certain devilish persons in places subject to your own rule. It is not of course either made or sold at your bidding, nor do all the countries you rule produce it, but only certain of them. We have heard that England forbids the smoking of opium within its dominions with the utmost rigour. This means you are aware of how harmful it is. Since the injury it causes has been averted from England, is it not wrong to send it to another nation? How can these opium-sellers bear to bring to our people an article which does them so much harm for an ever-grasping gain? Suppose those of another nation should go to England and induce its people to buy and smoke the drug – it would be right that You, Honoured Sovereign, should hate and abhor them. Hitherto we have heard that You, Honoured Sovereign, whose heart is full of benevolence, would not do to others that which you would not others should do to yourself. Better than to forbid the smoking of opium then would be to forbid the sale of it and, better still, to prohibit the production of it, which is the only way of cleansing the contamination at its source. So long as you do not take it upon yourselves to forbid the opium but continue to make it and tempt the people of China to buy it, you will be showing yourselves careful of your own lives, but careless of the lives of other people, indifferent in your greed for gain to the harm you do to others. Such conduct is repugnant to human feeling and at variance with the Way of Heaven.’

*

Whether by design or not, it happened that the chop-boats that carried the last foreigners to the Bogue followed a route that took them past the field where the surrendered opium was being destroyed. Had Bahram known beforehand, he would have closed the window of his cabin, but the sight was upon him before he could shut his eyes: hundreds of men were swarming over the compound, carrying crates and upending them into a tank.

He did not need to be told what they were doing: he had spent half a lifetime ferrying those familiar mangowood crates across the seas; even at that distance they were easy to recognize. Looking at them now, he remembered the storm in the Bay of Bengal and how he had endangered his life for those precious crates; he remembered the months of effort it had taken to assemble that enormous consignment and the hopes he had invested in it. Even though he would have liked to be spared the sight of their destruction he could not tear his eyes away from the men who were standing waist-deep in the tank, stamping upon the opium: it was as if his own body were being trod upon until it melted into the water and flowed into the river – like the dark sludge that was spilling from the sluices.

His throat, head and chest began to ache with the craving for a pipe – but it was impossible to light one here, in sight of his own staff. He would have to wait till he reached the Anahita. He lay down and began to count the hours.

It was past midnight when he was finally alone in the Owners’ Suite. He opened the window and locked the door before making himself a pipe. His fingers were trembling feverishly as he drank in the smoke. Within a few seconds his hands became steadier and his knotted muscles began to relax.

The night was hot and still: he had already taken off his angarkha, but his kasti and sadra were also drenched in sweat now. He took them off and lay bare-bodied on his bed, wearing nothing but a pair of pyjamas.

Through the window he could see the outlines of the desolate ridges and headlands of Hong Kong, looming above the ship, silhouetted against a brightly moonlit sky. The waters around the Anahita were crowded with ships and many small boats were paddling about. He could hear the splash of oars and the voices of boat-girls, raised in laughter and complaint. Their sound was very familiar, like echoes from the past; he was not in the least surprised when he heard his name being called: ‘Mister Barry! Mister Barry!’

He went to the window and saw that a sampan had pulled up, under the overhang of the Anahita’s stern. There was a boy in the back, leaning against the yuloh; he was wearing a conical sun hat so his face was in darkness. But Bahram could hear him clearly, even though he was speaking in a whisper, so as not to alert the ship’s crew: ‘Come, Mister Barry. Come. She waiting you – waiting you inside.’ He pointed to the sampan’s covered hull.

The window of the Owners’ Suite had been built, Bahram knew, to serve also as an escape hatch, in case of fire or other emergencies. Underneath was a glass-fronted box with a rope ladder. Bahram took the ladder out, attached the grapnels to the sill, and dropped it over the side. When the boy had taken hold of the bottom rung, Bahram swung his pyjama-clad leg over the sill and began to descend. He went down very carefully, rung by rung, watching every step.

‘Come, Mister Barry. Ha-loy!’

The sampan was under his feet now, so he let go of the ladder and pushed it away.

The boy was pointing at the sampan’s covered cabin: ‘There, Mister Barry. She wait you there.’

Bahram crept under the bamboo matting and immediately a hand brushed against his bare chest. He recognized at once the feel of the rough, callused fingers.

‘Chi-mei?’ He heard her giggle, and stretched his arms into the darkness. ‘Chi-mei! Come!’

Afterwards, as so often before, they crawled out on the prow. Lying flat on their bellies they looked at the moon’s image, shimmering in the water. It was shining so brightly that her face too was illuminated by its reflected glow: she seemed to be looking up from under the water’s surface, smiling at him, beckoning with a finger.

‘Come, Mister Barry. Come. Ha-loy!’

He smiled. ‘Yes, Chi-mei, I’m coming. It’s time now.’

The water was so warm that it was as if they were still on the boat, lying in each other’s arms.

*

The dangling rope ladder caught Paulette’s attention early in the morning, soon after she had made her daily climb up the slopes of the island, to the plot of land Fitcher had rented for his plants.

The spot was high enough to provide her with a fine view of the strait and every morning, at the end of her climb, she would spend a few minutes in the shade of a tree, counting the ships in the bay and catching her breath.

Over the preceding weeks the channel between Hong Kong and Kowloon had become busier than ever before. Many British-owned ships had left Macau and moved there; most of Macau’s British residents had left too and were now living on the anchored ships. As a result, a floating settlement had come into being in the shadows of Hong Kong’s peaks and ridges; although its core was formed by the fleet of foreign ships, many boat-people had also gathered there, offering every kind of service, from laundry to provisioning; dozens of small boats were constantly on the prowl, hawking fruits, vegetables, meat, live chickens and much else.

In that motley assemblage of vessels the Anahita had stood out from the first by reason of her elegant lines and rakish masts. Paulette and Fitcher had passed the ship many times on their way to the eastern end of the island, where they often went to forage for plants. Often the Anahita’s lascar lookouts would wave to them as they went by.

Today it so happened that the Anahita’s stern was turned in Paulette’s direction. This was why the ladder caught her eye: it made for an odd sight – a ladder hanging from a window in an anchored ship, with nothing below it but water. She wondered about it for a bit, then shrugged it off and busied herself with the plants.

The weather was hot and clammy and after an hour she had to take another break. Turning towards the Anahita, she saw that an uproar had broken out on the elegant three-master: the dangling ladder had been discovered and pulled in. The crew were swarming over the main deck, hoisting signals and shouting across the water, holding bungals to their mouths.

Around mid-morning, when it came time for Paulette to go down to meet the Redruth’s gig, she noticed that a yawl had been lowered from the Anahita and was now making its way towards Hong Kong. There were a dozen turbaned men inside, most of them lascars. They were pulling hard on the oars.

The trail that led down to the beach cut sharply back and forth across the hillside. Following it down, Paulette lost sight of the yawl for several minutes. When she glimpsed it again, it had already touched land: its passengers had leapt off and were running across the beach. They had evidently spotted something and were racing to get to it: what it was she could not tell for it was hidden by an overhang.

A minute or so later screams came echoing up the slope. The voices were distraught, shouting in frantic, high-pitched Hindusthani: Yahan! Here! Here! We’ve found him…

She quickened her pace and soon afterwards the men came into view. They were kneeling around a bare-bodied corpse that had washed up on the beach; some were weeping and some were striking their foreheads with the heels of their palms.

One of the men, bearded and turbaned, looked up and caught sight of her. His face did not look familiar but she could tell, from his widening eyes, that he had recognized her. He rose to his feet and came towards her.

‘Miss Lambert?’ he said softly.

She recognized the voice at once. Apni? she said in Bengali. Is it you? From the Ibis?

Yes, it’s me.

She saw that his face was streaked with tears. What’s happened here? she said. Who is that?

Do you remember Ah Fatt, from the Ibis?

She nodded. Yes. Of course.

It’s his father. Seth Bahram Modi.

*

According to the legends of the Fami, it was entirely by chance that Neel came into possession of Robin Chinnery’s letters.

The story goes that towards the end of his visit to the Colver farm Neel asked if he might spend a few nights in the place where Paulette had once stayed, down by the sea. This was a tin-roofed cabin, tucked inside a coconut grove: there was a charpoy inside, a rickety table and a chair or two; other than that the place was empty. Of Paulette’s occupancy there was no trace at all, and yet, in the same way that a man can sometimes feel the gaze of another person resting upon his back, Neel felt that something of hers was staring him in the face. He got down on his knees and crawled over the tiled floor; he examined the walls; he went outside and rooted around in the sandy surroundings, hoping to find some shrub or flower that she might have planted. But other than coconuts and sea-grapes, not much would grow there and he found nothing.

Through all this, Neel grew ever more certain that something of Paulette’s was hidden in plain view: what could it be and where was it? The thought nagged at his mind so persistently that he could not sleep properly. At some point in the night he pushed the pillow off the charpoy: that was when he noticed a bump in the mattress – something was hidden underneath. He lit a lamp and pulled back the mattress. Underneath lay a packet of some sort, wrapped in tarpaulin. He undid the knotted leather cord that was tied around it and gently removed the covering.

There was a sheaf of paper inside. The first sheet was yellow with age and covered with handwriting – large, flamboyantly sloped and a little faded.

Neel moved the lamp closer and began to read.

*

8 Rua Ignacio Baptista

Macau

July 6, 1839

Beloved Pugglee-shona, you cannot imagine how happy I was to receive your last, most recent letter. It provided me with the only bit of cheer I have had in a long while. It was nothing less than thrilling to learn that Zachary has been cleared of all charges and is on his way to China!

I am truly, truly glad for you, Puggly dear: I eagerly await even better and more joyful news – news that will allow me to call you ‘Puggleebai’! – indeed I long for it, and I do hope I will receive it soon, for it is perhaps the only thing that could dispel the dark cloud that has settled on me these last few weeks.

Macau does not suit me at all, I find – or perhaps it is just that I do not like living in my Uncle’s house. But no – it would be wrong of me to place the blame for my megrims on Macau or my ‘uncle’ or his house. The truth is that I miss Canton quite dreadfully: the Maidan, the factories, Hog Lane, Old China Street, Lamqua’s shop – but most of all Jacqua. My only consolation is that he too is thinking of me. I know this because he sent me a present a couple of weeks ago: jujubes and candy, as usual, but they were wrapped in a most curious covering – a confection of silk that proved to be, on examination, the severed sleeve of one of his gowns! There was no accompanying letter, of course – since we share no written language I did not really expect one. But I confess I was most intrigued by that piece of silk: was it just a keepsake, I asked myself, or was it the vehicle of some coded message? The more I thought about it the more convinced I became that it was the latter, so I decided in the end to seek the assistance of some of my Uncle’s Chinese assistants. Their response immediately confirmed my suspicions – they giggled and tittered and blushed and would not tell me what the message was. I had to resort to all kinds of bribery and cajolery to get the story out of them: apparently a long time ago there was an Emperor of China who was so greatly attached to his Friend that once, when he fell asleep on his arm, rather than disturb his rest he cut the sleeve off his priceless gown!

Is it not the most touching story? It ought to have cheered me but I confess it only made things worse: if I had missed Canton before, after this I found myself both yearning for it and despairing of ever seeing it again.

Seized by the blue-devils, I became prey also to nightmares: they started on the night of that fearsome storm that hit the coast a fortnight ago – you will remember it well, I am sure, for it must have given the Redruth quite a battering.

In any event, at some moment in that long, dreadful night, when the winds were easing off, I closed my eyes and thought myself to be back in Canton – but only to find it convulsed by another riot, like that of December 12th except that it was even worse.

Something appalling had happened in the city and a great mob had poured into Fanqui-town; this time there were no troops at hand to control them and the crowd was bent on destruction. I saw men running into the Maidan with flaming torches; they broke into the factories and set fire to the godowns. I escaped from my room and ran along the city walls until I reached the Sea-Calming Tower. From the top I looked down and saw a line of flames leaping above the river; the factories were on fire and they burned through the night. In the morning when the sun rose, I saw that Fanqui-town had been reduced to ashes; it was gone; everything had disappeared – Markwick’s Hotel and Lamqua’s shop and the shamshoo-dens in Hog Lane and the flagpoles in the Maidan. They had all been wiped away and in their place there were only ashes…

I am haunted by these images, Puggly dear; they return to me almost every night. Even when I awake I cannot wipe this vision from my eyes. I can paint nothing else but this; I have done a dozen versions already – I will send you one with this letter.

I would have liked to bring it to you myself, Puggly dear, but I am too stricken at this time to consider making even this short journey. It has ever been so with us Chinnerys, you know – when we are happy we soar very high and when we are not we fall into the depths of an abyss. And so it is with me now, Puggly dear.

I do envy you your felicity, my sweet, sweet Empress of Puggledom, but not, I hope, in a covetous way. I am filled with gladness for you and only wish I could share your joy… but, yes, I will own also that I do not want you to be so joyful as to forget your poor Robin.

*

Neel read through the night, and in the morning, when Deeti came down to the hut, he showed her the packet. Since she had never learned to read, the letters were of no interest to her. But the paintings that Neel had found in the packet seized her attention immediately – especially the picture of Fanqui-town in flames.

What’s this place? she demanded to know. Where is it?

It’s a place you’ve heard a lot about, said Neel. Kalua and your brother Kesri Singh were there during the wars – they must have told you about it. And Jodu too – and Paulette as well.

Ah! Is it called Chin-kalan?

Yes. Canton in English.

Why is it burning?

It’s a strange thing…

Turning the picture over Neel pointed to the bottom right-hand corner, where the words ‘Pixt. E. Chinnery, July 1839’ were written in tiny letters.

See, he said, the painter – Paulette’s friend Robin Chinnery – has put down the date as July 1839. But the destruction of the Thirteen Factories did not happen until seventeen years later. But it seems that Robin saw it in a dream.

So the place doesn’t exist any more?

Neel shook his head. No. It was burnt to the ground. One night during the wars, Canton was bombarded by British and French gunships. The townspeople saw that the foreign factories were the only part of the city that was unharmed and they were enraged. A mob set fire to the factories; they were razed and never rebuilt.

Have you been back there then?

Neel nodded. Yes. The last time was almost thirty years after my first visit. The place was changed beyond recognition. The site of the Maidan was a scene of utter desolation: the factories were gone – hardly a brick was left standing upon another. A new foreign enclave had been constructed nearby, on a mudbank that had been reclaimed and filled in. It was called Shamian Island and the houses the Europeans had built there were nothing like the Thirteen Hongs. Nor was the atmosphere of the new enclave anything like that of the Fanqui-town of old. It was a typical ‘White Town’ of the kind the British made everywhere they went – it was cut off from the rest of the city, and very few Chinese were allowed inside, only servants. The streets were clean and leafy, and the buildings were as staid and dull as the people inside them. But behind that facade of bland respectability the foreigners were importing more opium than ever from India – after winning the war the British had quickly put an end to Chinese efforts to prohibit the drug.

I hated the dull, European buildings of Shamian, with their prim facades and their pediments of murderous greed: the new enclave was like a monument built by the forces of evil to celebrate their triumphal march through history. I could not bear to linger there: it was so unlike the Canton of my memories that I began to wonder whether my recollections were only a dream. But then I went to Thirteen Hong Street, which was the only part of Fanqui-town that remained. There were still some shops there that sold paintings. In one of them I found a picture of the Maidan and the Thirteen Factories…

Neel looked down again at Robin’s painting and a catch came into his throat.

The picture cost more than I could afford, he said, but I bought it anyway. I realized that if it were not for those paintings no one would believe that such a place had ever existed.