Opium

by Martin Booth

  As Lintin became established, three older and slower vessels – the Merope (owned by Matheson), the Samarang (owned by Dent) and the General Quiroga (owned by a Spanish consortium based in Manila) – were permanently moored off the island, to be joined in time by others. One, the Lintin, owned by an American soldier of fortune called Forbes, made him so much money in three years from 1830 that he retired, requesting to be buried in a coffin made from her mainmast. By then, up to twenty-five receiving ships rode at anchor off the island.

  These hulks had their masts removed and their decks covered with either a bamboo roof or canvas awnings tailored from the sails. Their guns were not removed and they became floating fortified opium warehouses commanded by British officers, but crewed by Lascars, with Chinese craftsmen. The Lascars (known as ‘Black Barbarians’ by the Chinese) were single but many of the Chinese maintained families ashore on Lintin whilst the vessels even carried the families of their British officers and became small, self-contained communities. Life for the officers could be quite pleasurable. They scaled the peak to shoot ducks and paddy-birds although they always went in parties to avoid being robbed, or ‘bambooed’. A few houses onshore offered a respite from ship-board existence and the ladies often exercised on the beach. There were even picnic outings and social dinner parties.

  Chinese merchants purchased opium from the receiving ships either cash on delivery or acceptance, or paid for in advance to agents in Canton. The opium was taken out of its chest, which remained on board, and packed into bags of woven-grass matting which were loaded on to armed, two-masted Chinese river craft with fifty oars, known as ‘centipedes’, ‘fast crabs’ or ‘scrambling dragons’. When loaded, they made for shore, evading imperial patrols. Once safely up one of the many estuarine creeks, agents took collection and distributed the opium.

  A contretemps between an imperial official and Chinese opium smugglers was witnessed in about 1836 by a young British doctor, C. Toogood Downing. After hiding itself up a creek, a mandarin’s boat laid an ambush for a centipede, which at first got away. Then, as Downing recorded, the chase began:

  The screams and yells of the smugglers were mixed with the ricketty sound of their vessel and the orders and cries of the mandarins behind them. Every now and then the long ornamental gun [on the mandarin boat] was turned upon its swivel, and a loud report reverberated across the country as it was discharged against the chase but with little effect: the shot was generally seen dancing along the water wide of the mark …

  Unbeknownst to the smugglers, another mandarin boat was hiding up another creek and suddenly hove into view, trapping the centipede.

  The mandarins rushed to the attack without hesitation, and laid about them in right good earnest, with their swords and pikes, frequently cutting and wounding in a dreadful manner; but the poor smugglers appeared to act on the defensive … Many of the defeated jumped overboard, and as they struggled in the waters to gain the shore, formed excellent marks for the spears and javelins of the conquerors. The great mass of them, however, were seized … The long pigtail served instead of the coat collar … when twisted two or three times round the hand …

  That the smugglers put up only a defensive resistance is not surprising: any smuggler taken alive was sent to hard labour for life but if a mandarin or member of his crew was killed, the whole smuggling gang would have forfeited their lives.

  As a general rule, such official craft kept clear of Lintin Island, although war junks frequently moored offshore, firing their guns to salute passing mandarin vessels, to tell the hour or keep evil spirits at bay. Otherwise, they made no attempt to intervene in the opium trade. They were not just afraid of a diplomatic incident but also of the superior fire-power of the opium clippers and fortified receiving vessels.

  Occasionally, a show of imperial compliance was made. When a clipper sailed, a fleet of war junks would close on it. The clipper captain would maintain a speed which allowed the war junks to keep in touch so they might fire on the clipper, deliberately aiming wide or short. From time to time, Chinese smugglers were executed but the customs patrols were corrupt to such an extent even their commander, Rear-Admiral Han Shao-ch’iung, was in for his kickback. In 1832, patrols were abolished as next to useless.

  No real effort was made to counteract smuggling, mainly because so many officials benefited from it: whilst opium was the main contraband, smugglers also ran any merchandise upon which a heavy duty was levied. Everyone from the viceroy to the lowest mandarin gained from the trade, the Emperor’s exchequer the only real loser.

  The opium trade grew as the years progressed, expanding from an annual production of 4494 chests in 1811–21 to 9708 chests in 1821–28, 18,835 chests in 1828–35 and over 30,000 chests in 1835–39. These amounts were for importation from India alone and excluded opium brought by sea and overland from Turkey, as well as that deriving from domestic cultivation. Until about 1830, there were extensive poppy fields throughout southern China, especially in Chekiang province, but the suppression of farmers in 1831 successfully restricted cultivation to isolated districts and regions where, by the late 1830s, a substantial amount of opium was once more being grown. Being inferior to Indian imports, it was usually used to blend with the latter rather than to be smoked on its own.

  Opium profits were enormous and a large number of foreign nationals were engaged in the trade with or without official support from home. Other than the British, the Americans were particularly active, accounting for about 10 per cent of the trade: although prohibited by their government in 1858, many ignored the ruling. Often, the Americans tried to conceal their involvement in opium but it was just as vital a part of the American tea trade as it was the British tea trade and many prominent American families grew rich from it. At some stage British, American, Greek, Dutch, Swedish, French, Spanish, Danish, and Latin Americans operated Canton factories. Throughout the 1830s, the opium trade was worth up to £3 million per annum, the British accounting for over 80 per cent of the turnover. In 1837, the British mercantile contingent in Canton exceeded 150.

  All the foreigners still had to reside in the Canton Colony, which amounted to a foreign enclave. They lived in thirteen factories, rather grand buildings rented from the Hong merchants, which were curious architectural hybrids with European and Oriental features. Each contained apartments or houses for expatriate staff, commercial offices for one or more firms and stores built around courtyards vaguely in the manner of a Chinese yamen or administrative centre. To the east was a noxious creek which served as a nullah, or open sewer. Close by, between the factories and the Pearl River frontage, was a square, later segregated into two small parks, the American and British Gardens. The riverbank was thronged with fishing and commercial sampans moored in lines and small cutters used by the merchants to reach Whampoa. Across the river, which was not bridged, lay the settlement of Honam, a temple and a fort. Residency was not year-long: to avoid the humidity and heat of the summer and, no doubt, the stink of the creek, merchants decamped from May to September to Macau where their families lived: foreign women were forbidden to occupy the factories.

  Each factory had a local agent, known as a compradore, the name taken from the Portuguese: in Cantonese, he was known as the mai pan. They were middlemen employed by the merchants (known in Cantonese as tai pans) to manage all contact with Chinese traders and money dealers. They were essential because foreigners were prohibited direct contact with Chinese businessmen. Needless to say, compradores were in a prime position to indulge in corruption and often sold opium themselves. In time, some became incredibly wealthy, companies they founded thriving to this day as multinational corporations based in Hong Kong.

  In 1828, the Viceroy of Canton had issued a proclamation denouncing the smoking of opium and ordering the rigorous enforcement of the law. The results were that opium continued to be smoked and smuggled but the trade spread out along the China coast where receiving ships were anchored at places like Namoa. Here, the usual corruption assured trad
e away from the prying eyes of viceregal spies.

  Sending vessels along the coast was risky. The waters were uncharted and, in places, local officials were zealous in their application of the law: but, worse, every vessel ran the chance of piracy. A clipper was worth capturing for any pirate knew it was sure to be laden with opium and silver bullion or coin, the currency of the opium trade. For a clipper captain, it was never easy telling which Chinese craft were innocent and which manned by pirates: frequently, as was the case on the China coast, junks were both, the fishermen ready to turn to piracy if the opportunity arose. In general, of course, a clipper was safe because of her manoeuvrability and speed but if the wind dropped she was in real danger for many junks could be rowed.

  Apart from these obvious hazards, opium runners were faced with having to do business without the convenience of a bilingual compradore. Some enterprising local Chinese officials learnt pidgin English whilst some traders employed multilingual expatriates to act on their behalf: as any Chinese found teaching his mother tongue to a foreigner was sentenced to death, competent linguists were rare and valuable. Jardine Matheson relied upon a Prussian missionary, Dr Karl Gutzlaff, whom Jardine had taken on a trading trip in 1832 1600 miles up the China coast.

  A one-time corset-maker and the widower of an English heiress he had married in Malacca in 1829, Gutzlaff had a home in Macau where his second English wife ran a school for blind children. From here, he travelled widely, dispensing medicines and handing out tracts: his medical prowess was described as ‘of the most moderate character.’ During his journeys, he acquired a command of Chinese etiquette and a number of dialects: this was very important not just in communicating but also in knowing when, who and how much to bribe. An account of Gutzlaff’s contribution to the opium trade was drawn from Jardine Matheson archives by the Far Eastern scholar, Maurice Collis:

  At Chinchow Bay six mandarin junks anchored close by after sunset in such a way as to suggest that the officials on board intended to prevent dealers from coming to buy. Captain McKay, who was in command of the John Biggar, asked Gutzlaff to row over and tell them to go away. In a letter to the firm McKay describes what happened: ‘Doctor Gutzlaff, dressed in his best, which on such occasions is his custom, paid them a visit accompanied by two boats made to appear somewhat imposing. He demanded their instant departure and threatened them with destruction if they ever again anchored in our neighbourhood. They went away immediately, saying they had anchored there in the dark by mistake, and we have seen nothing more of them.’ It was disclosed afterwards that the officials, though really willing enough, had not dared connive at the smuggling because the John Biggar was lying out in the roadstead in full view of the town. A mandarin had always to reckon on the danger of rivals or enemies reporting him if he openly flouted the law. Such a report might not mean punishment, but certainly entailed a heavy bribe to escape it.

  Gutzlaff paved the way for a Jardine Matheson-led syndicate to acquire the opium trading rights to Chinchow by buying off the local mandarins with $20,000 per annum tea money.

  In exchange for Gutzlaff’s assistance, Jardine Matheson donated to his missionary work which included printing prayer books and selling patent medicines, some of which contained opium. It seems Gutzlaff had no conscience about opium: it was part and parcel of spreading the Word of God. Other missionaries were also connected to the traders. Robert Morrison, the first Protestant missionary to China, had became official translator to the East India Company in 1809: his Chinese dictionary was printed by the company.

  There were other priests who took a different view. As early as 1838, an English clergyman denounced the fact that millions of Chinese were being brutalised by the drug. They were not alone: the East India Company was still brutalising large numbers of Indians despite attempts to control opium in Bengal. In 1840, a Mr Sym, manager for the Company opium agency at Gorakhpor, wrote: ‘The health and morals of the people suffer from the production of opium. Wherever opium is grown it is eaten, and the more it is grown, the more it is eaten.’

  James Matheson responded to critics who argued against opium on moral grounds by stating: ‘We have every respect for persons entertaining strict religious principles, but we fear that very godly people are not suited for the drug trade.’ This does not say much for his opinion of Herr Gutzlaff.

  As the opium trade was conducted in part to facilitate the tea trade, the East India Company was always searching for ways in which it might grow its own tea and, in the early 1820s, the search discovered wild tea growing in Assam, in north-eastern India. A side-business sprang up, shipping indented labourers on clippers returning to India to work on plantations there. These poor wretches were promised a fixed wage, but rarely collected it. A quarter died in transit, the rest succumbing to diseases to which they had no immunity. A third of the work force died every six months.

  It was little wonder that, by the mid-1830s, humane observers were letting it be known what the tea and opium trades were doing to native Chinese. This understandably enraged the Emperor.

  It was not the only bone of contention between the mostly British foreigners and the Chinese. The former resented sailors being tried in Chinese courts for unruly conduct ashore. The Chinese authorities resented the opium trade and the arrogance of foreign traders whom they saw lacking in humility and gratitude and who smuggled poisons into the empire. These differences were irreconcilable.

  In the India Act of 1833, the East India Company’s trading monopoly rights in China were annulled. Within a year the British government realised something had to be done to safeguard opium, without which the economy of India would be in dire straits, though the trade was still not admitted to nor even mentioned.

  When the East India Company withdrew from Canton in 1834, it left a vacuum in the expatriate community, for senior company officers had provided leadership and a focus for the foreigners. The merchants required a regulatory authority so the British government appointed three Superintendents of Trade in China to oversee British business, with Lord William Napier, a career sailor, selected as Chief Superintendent.

  Napier arrived with ill-defined instructions as to how to deal with opium. From the moment he disembarked in Canton, he set off on the wrong foot by presenting his credentials direct to the viceroy rather than going through the Chinese merchants. The viceroy refused Napier’s credentials, telling the Co-Hong merchants to get rid of him. At the affront, trade was halted and the factories besieged. Napier sent a signal to two Royal Naval frigates at anchor not far from Lintin Island to sail for Canton but after an exchange of fire with the Bogue forts, which defended the river mouth, a blockade of fire boats kept them out of the city approaches. Napier, who had fallen seriously ill, was obliged to ask permission to retreat to Macau. After this was granted, he went to the Portuguese enclave, complained about the ringing of the church bells (which the Portuguese considerately silenced) then died.

  The other Superintendents of Trade, realising Chinese opposition towards foreign merchants and opium was increasing, sent memoranda to London warning that the Chinese edicts on opium should be heeded if a confrontation was to be avoided. One of the Superintendents, Sir George Robinson, resided on Lintin Island specifically to observe opium smuggling. His blunt reports were uncompromising:

  Whenever H.M. Government direct us to prevent British vessels from engaging in the traffic, we can enforce any order to that effect, but a more certain method would be to prohibit the growth of the poppy, and manufacture of opium in British India.

  However, Parliament and the British Foreign Secretary, Lord Palmerston, still refusing to acknowledge openly the opium trade, disapproved of Robinson’s forthrightness and dismissed him. His successor was to change the course of British history in China. He was Captain Charles Elliot, RN, formerly captain of a hospital ship, Protector of Slaves in British Guiana and Captain Attendant to Lord Napier, being in the cutter Louisa at the attack on the Bogue forts, prominently seated in the stern under a sun umbrella, o
bserving the fighting and impervious to the crash of gunfire all around him.

  Elliot was, from the beginning, in an impossible situation. The Chinese held him responsible for the opium trade and its results but his instructions from London were to control only lawful trade with China – which opium was not. He was bound to protect and represent the interests of the British merchants but the Chinese interpreted this as safeguarding opium smugglers. Aware of the delicate situation and the position it put him in, Elliot knew matters could only worsen and he attempted to force the British government to act on the opium trade. They did not and, by 1838, Chinese forbearance was all but spent.

  The merchants themselves exacerbated the situation. They were growing tired of regulation and wanted to open Chinese eyes to the realities of international trade. A consensus of opinion was that a threat of war might do the trick. Partly to annoy the Chinese and partly to flex their muscles, some traders bypassed Lintin Island and shipped direct to Canton. This flouting of the rules was inflammatory, to say the least. The Viceroy of Canton, Teng Ting-chen, and the Governor of Canton stood to lose a substantial sum in tea money and direct investment: the former owned a fleet of opium-transporting junks, but they had to act to support the regulations for they had too many enemies ready to report any dilatory behaviour to the Emperor.

  The action the Viceroy took was short and to the point: he ordered nine leading British opium dealers to leave China. They did not. He made no attempt to force them out but still he had to show his enemies he meant business. In December 1838, a boatload of coolies was arrested as they brought opium ashore from a British ship off Whampoa. The Governor admonished the British, adding he would be benevolent and avoid an investigation. The coolies were the scapegoats, being publicly executed by strangulation.