by Porter Hill
‘The Co-hung wishes to continue trading with the Honourable East India Company after we welcome the new ships you promise to send us from England, Mr Fanshaw. Therefore,’ he stressed, ‘we do not wish to inflict harm on any person affiliated with the East India Company, not even those men called the Bombay Marines whom the Maritime Guards captured last night on the Pearl River.’
Abutai had informed Fanshaw at the start of this morning’s meeting that an Englishman and his crew had been seized last night and were being held prisoner at an undisclosed spot here in Whampoa.
Fanshaw remembered to follow Chinese etiquette as he replied: ‘Excuse me for speaking in your illustrious presence, noble Abutai, but the Bombay Marines do not belong to the East India Company. Not in the same way as do officers aboard Company Indiamen. Marines are mere brigands and cut-throats. They are recruited from prisons. They are retained as a man keeps a dog to guard his house from strangers.’
Abutai kept both hands tucked into his embroidered sleeves. ‘An officer’s uniform was found in the captain’s quarters. There were also instructions from Governor Pigot of Madras to the captain—Adam Horne.’
Chinese protocol frequently bordered on the ridiculous, as Fanshaw had learnt during his many visits to China, but he easily and quickly adapted to an obsequious role. His difficulty now was finding out whether the Company had sent the Bombay Marine in pursuit of him. How could he discover what crafty Abutai had learnt from reading Horne’s orders?
‘Despite my unworthiness to be in your esteemed presence, great Abutai,’ he began, ‘I can only suggest that I offer my services to read the written orders and tell you if they are authentic or false. I do not know this man, Adam Horne, whom your Guard arrested last night. But I suspect his mission is not what it seems. Could it be, Your Excellency, that he has come to China to make contacts for the East India Company with the independent merchants trading illegally along your southern coastline?’
The chief mandarin’s angular face remained stony. ‘You presume to know a great deal about China, Mr Fanshaw, by speaking about illegal trade on our southern frontier.’
‘Abutai so eminent, if an ignorant man such as myself knows about those cursed merchants plying an illegal opium trade against the noble wishes of the Imperial Co-Hung, how many other foreigners must know the same fact? Including Governor Pigot. I can only hint to you, learned great one, at the way the East India Company could profit from not one but two trading sources with China. Not only with the Co-Hung but with the lowly coastal merchants. It would not be the first time that England has dealt with contraband.’
The mandarin considered Fanshaw’s syrupy words. ‘There was also an interpreter travelling aboard the Marine ship, Mr Fanshaw. He upholds the captain’s story about being in search of your ship, the China Flyer.’
Damn it! So his worst fears had come true. The Bombay Marine were here in pursuit of him. And the Chinese knew.
Fanshaw also cursed his oversight in not realising that Pigot would send someone to translate for the Marines and the Manchu officials.
Boldly, he replied, ‘As always, you are gracious as well as erudite, great Abutai. I am forever indebted to be reminded that the East India Company will try to frustrate my every move. Humble as I am, every word I say to you poses a great threat to their monopoly of the rich China trade.’
Then, more hesitantly, he said, ‘If the eminent Abutai wishes, my humble service could be of even greater use to his far-reaching power. I could interview this interpreter travelling with the Bombay Marines …’
Unmoved by the proposal, Abutai answered, ‘Before such a thing can happen, Mr Fanshaw, the Co-Hung wishes you to appear once more before them.’
Bowing deeply to the mandarin, Fanshaw just restrained himself from dropping to a complete kowtow. ‘I am honoured to appear again before the august body of the Co-Hung. I consider it my duty to disclose all I know about the cur-like soldiers, the Bombay Marines.’
‘The Co-Hung will want to hear about other matters as well. Particularly about the new company of English merchants you are proposing to introduce to China.’
‘O eminent Abutai, I shall tell the Court of the Co-Hung the same facts that I am and have been honoured to tell you—that the new board I represent from London is sounder than the East India Company. Its chairman, Sir Jeremy Riggs, until recently represented the Company’s pepper trade. He has told me that he has grown tired of the Company’s duplicity. The presence of the Bombay Marines here in Whampoa attests to the Company’s treachery. Next they will be sending in troops to attack the Chinese. You have no reason to fear military action from the gracious gentlemen whom I am representing to you.’
‘Further debate is needed, Mr Fanshaw,’ Abutai insisted, ‘before the new English trading company is put on the Co-Hung’s privileged list.’
‘Excuse such presumption, Your Grace, at raising such a question in your presence. But earlier in this audience which you are charitable enough to grant me, your lofty Eminence said that the Maritime Guard seized the Bombay Marines last night on the Pearl River. I was too stupid to understand whether the Marine’s ship had appeared on the Hoppo’s privileged list or had stolen unawares up the Pearl River.’
‘Captain Horne requested permission from the Hoppo in Macao to proceed up the Pearl River. He presented the Hoppo with opium. Suspecting that the Marine might be here for ulterior reasons, the Hoppo accepted the cumshaw and allowed him to proceed.’
Fanshaw was wondering why Abutai was divulging such facts to him when, unexpectedly, the chief mandarin added, ‘Do you think the time will come, Mr Fanshaw, when there are as many spies in trade as there are in warfare?’
What did the mandarin mean? Was it a veiled Chinese warning? Fanshaw had no time to ponder it. There were too many other questions in his mind.
He tried again. ‘The military protection of your waterways greatly impresses me, illustrious Abutai. Is it difficult to take custody of a European ship here in Whampoa, while the captain remains in command?’
‘The Marine’s ship will not be kept in Whampoa.’
‘Ah, there is more opium aboard!’ It was a gamble but Fanshaw wanted to know. ‘The Marine’s ship will be taken down river to Kam-Sing-Moon and unloaded at the depot. Of course.’
The flicker of annoyance in Abutai’s dark eyes told Fanshaw that his observations were going beyond the permitted limits.
‘That is no concern of the Marine commander, Adam Horne,’ said the mandarin. ‘Captain Horne need only contemplate a future in the Dragon Prison of Canton.’
The Bombay Marine captain gaoled! The idea thrilled Fanshaw.
‘Your cleverness should not surprise me, Your Eminence,’ he exclaimed, ‘but I constantly marvel at the shrewdness of your mind. Yes, by imprisoning the leader of the Bombay Marine in the Dragon Prison, you will show the East India Company that they must not take lightly the Imperial Co-Hung. The great Manchu powers act on their own volition. They are not a court to be intimidated by the East India Company.’
Fanshaw’s mind worked quickly as he savoured the idea of Horne being imprisoned. The East India Company would never jeopardise their position with the Chinese to rescue a lowly Bombay Marine. They would probably not even risk insulting the Chinese by negotiating for Horne’s release. The Company was anything but loyal to its men. There was also the time factor. Fanshaw’s new trading company would soon be incorporated and in operation.
But the alternative would also benefit Fanshaw. If the Company did try to save Horne and were stupid enough to rescue him, the action would corroborate everything Fanshaw had said, that they had no respect for China or the Chinese.
Fanshaw resumed his obsequious style. ‘High Abutai, if I can not be of use to you by interviewing the Marine’s interpreter, perhaps I can offer my humble talents to speak to the Bombay Marine Captain, Adam Horne.’
The chief mandarin surprised Fanshaw by promptly agreeing. ‘A meeting might be arranged in the next few days. But it must
be soon because Captain Horne will appear next week in front of the Co-Hung.’
‘On trial?’ blurted out Fanshaw, forgetting all about etiquette.
The doors opened at the far end of the hall. Abutai rose from his armchair and Fanshaw knew that he had gone too far in his questions.
Hoping to redeem himself by the ultimate form of respect, he fell to the floor in front of the chief mandarin, hands out in front of him, hauches in the air, and knocked his forehead one, two, three, four, five times on the thin silk carpet spread before the dais.
Above him, Abutai proclaimed, ‘You shall receive word as to when and where you can interview Captain Horne, Mr Fanshaw. Be waiting at your rooms tomorrow for the Co-Hung’s instructions.’
When Fanshaw raised himself with the help of his ivory staff, he saw only the back of the chief mandarin’s robes floating behind him as he departed from the panelled room.
* * *
Fool of a barbarian Englishman. Abutai moved swiftly down the corridor from the Hall of the Moon Winds, thinking how like rodents Englishmen were, running this way and that when they saw their ambitions becoming endangered. Fanshaw’s offer to visit Adam Horne in his prison provided Abutai with a convenient excuse to detain the former agent in Whampoa.
The Co-Hung had yet to decide about putting Fanshaw’s new British trading company on the Privileged Merchants List. Abutai slowed his step, wondering how the council would react to the news that Fanshaw possessed knowledge of local merchants trading opium illegally along the country’s southern coastline. Only a stupid barbarian would divulge that he possessed such valuable information, especially someone proposing to send trading ships to China.
Approaching the copper doors of the Co-Hung’s Jade Chamber, Abutai decided that, most certainly, fate had delivered the Bombay Marine captain to him to use in dealing with George Fanshaw. Yes, he would allow Fanshaw to visit Adam Horne in his prison tomorrow.
Chapter Twenty
THE EAST SEAS TRADING COMPANY
The London spring had yet to appear that year. In a cold drizzle falling for the seventeenth consecutive day in May, Sir Jeremy Riggs stepped out of the Honourable East India Company offices in Leadenhall Street, and looked up and down the row of narrow houses in search of his carriage. Seeing no sign of it, he raised his eyes to the clock on Plunkett’s Buttery opposite the East India Company. He had only ten minutes before he was due in Whitechapel; he would have to walk the twelve streets to his destination. His cloak would be soaked, his boots mired when he got there, but he could not be late for the meeting.
Hearing the thunder of horses’ hooves to his right, he turned and saw a carriage rushing towards him from Aldgate. He stepped back to avoid being splattered.
In front of the East India office, the driver reined in the frothing beasts. A red face with shaggy grey eyebrows appeared like an apparition at the carriage window, ordering, ‘Get in, Riggs.’
Benjamin Cowcross was the last person Sir Jeremy Riggs wanted to see, particularly here, in front of Company headquarters.
‘Get in out of the rain,’ repeated Cowcross, throwing open the carriage door. ‘Ride with me to Whitechapel.’
Without even leaving word for his coachman that he had gone on, Sir Jeremy climbed into the carriage and slammed the door, urging, ‘Tell your driver to move on, Cowcross! Move on! We must not be seen together. Not here. Not yet.’
Cowcross laughed at the baronet’s concern, his ale-foul breath filling the carriage as he scoffed, ‘You’re too cautious, Riggs. Too damned cautious. Everybody in the City will know soon enough you’re doing business with me. And that you’re a richer man for it. Our new company is going to take the cake out of the mouths of your fancy cronies at the East India Company. Mark my words. We’re on to a pot of gold, Riggs.’
Sir Jeremy sank into the opposite corner of the rumbling carriage. Public knowledge of the fact that he was in partnership with Ben Cowcross, the manufacturer of iron manacles and collars for the slave trade with the American colonies, was precisely what he did not want. He was associating with Cowcross only because he was too poor to partake in commercial ventures sponsored by the East India Company.
* * *
Less than an hour after Sir Jeremy had left Leadenhall Street, he was sitting in cramped offices in Whitechapel with the five men who formed the board of the new East Sea Trading Company. The smell of rancid suet drifted in from an adjoining pie shop, and a serving girl scuffed around the low-ceilinged room, handing out pewter tankards from a tray as she eyed each man.
At the head of the table presided Josiah Creddige, the portly heir of a Liverpool merchant whose fortune was based on hand-painted chintzes imported from India. Creddige the younger hoped to double his inherited fortune by bringing silks from China.
To Creddige’s right sat David Potter, a hatchet-faced broker of coffee. Potter was anxious to capitalise on England’s growing taste for China tea and was already negotiating for larger premises in St James’s.
Nicholas Kidley, a short man with a face covered in warts, was sitting on the opposite side of the table. His successful apothecary business depended on oriental spices and herbs; an increased supply of camphor, cloves and opium—all the oriental ingredients that composed his nostrums and potions—would enable him to expand his activities.
Next to Kidley sat swarthy David Thistle who owned the shipyards in Deptford renowned for building swift frigates sold to privateers. Thistle had ambitions to expand into the lucrative business of merchant shipping. He was offering his yards—as well as financing—to build the first merchantman for the East Sea Trading Company.
Beside Thistle sat Sir Jeremy Riggs, his worried face and refined tailoring making him appear out of place among this group of ruthless businessmen. Sir Jeremy had inherited his baronetcy and a manor house, but little money to support the style of living that went with them. Through social connections, he had won a sub-licence from the East India Company to import pepper from Bantam; but on going out to the Indies to oversee the venture, he had quickly found he hated the life there and had returned to England ill and on the verge of bankruptcy. In London, he had thrown himself on the mercy of Ben Cowcross, who had willingly loaned Sir Jeremy money on his manor house to finance the Bantam adventure. But after investigating the baronet’s financial situation, Cowcross had discovered that his most valuable possession was not the house but the licence to import pepper to England. With characteristic cunning, Cowcross had devised an intricate scheme by which Sir Jeremy could retain his family seat and make a fortune for himself. All he had to do was take five partners into a complicated, and not wholly legal, trading adventure.
Seated at the opposite end of the table from Josiah Creddige, Cowcross asked the first question of the day’s meeting. ‘Riggs, have you spoken recently to your friend the Duke of Turley?’
‘Of Course.’ Sir Jeremy disliked the way Cowcross ignored his title. ‘He’s waiting to hear if the Chinese Co-Hung will grant us permission to trade in China before he presents our case to the Crown.’
‘And when we stuff money into his purse,’ said Cowcross.
‘That, too.’ answered Sir Jeremy.
The only salve for Sir Jeremy Riggs in this uncomfortable situation was that men like the Duke of Turley also needed money and were prepared to do business with such rogues. The Duke had lost his own fortune on an East India Company convoy which the Company had failed to insure properly. Turley still carried a grudge against the Company’s Board of Directors and, for revenge as well as profit, was willing to help secure a Royal Charter from his hunting partner, King George, for a rival trading company to import goods from the Orient. But the Duke would only act when the new company had proof that they could trade with the Imperial Co-Hung of China.
‘Any news of the China Flyer?’ asked Creddige from the other end of the table.
‘It will be at least another three months before George Fanshaw returns to England,’ answered Sir Jeremy.
As the me
eting had been called for the purpose of obtaining a progress report from each member, Sir Jeremy himself now asked a question. ‘What’s the progress on the Charity Bourne, Mr Thistle?’
The shipbuilder answered with confidence. ‘We’re keeping to the estimate of twenty pounds per ton on the Charity, Sir Jeremy. Two pounds cheaper than the Thames Company builds for the East India Company.’
He turned to Cowcross. ‘Have you sold all your shares?’
Like the East India Company, the East Sea Company divided shares in a voyage into thirty-two lots. All shares in the new company’s first voyage had been purchased by the five businessmen at the table, who in turn, had sold them at profit to family and close friends. Sir Jeremy was promised fifteen per cent of the profit for his part in the venture.
‘What word do we have on insurance?’ asked Potter the coffee merchant.
Cowcross snorted. ‘The blackguards at Lloyd’s Coffee House are as jittery as titmice about going against anything or anyone challenging the East India Company!’
Horrified, Sir Jeremy sat forward in his chair, ‘You’ve not told anyone yet about our new company, Cowcross?’
‘Nay. I know how to keep my hat on my head, Riggs. I’m no fool. But I sounded out them Lloyd’s coffee guzzlers enough to know they’ll remain loyal to the old company. But don’t you worry about insurance. I lied about dumping fifty niggers overboard on an Atlantic Crossing two years ago, so City Assurance owes me a pretty favour. The Charity Bourne won’t sail without proper insurance.’
Kidley the apothecary said, ‘But Sir Jeremy is right. If the East India Company catches a whiff of what we’re doing, Cowcross, they’ll slap us all in irons as traitors for plotting against the Company’s Crown Charter.’
He turned to Sir Jeremy. ‘Have you got your Company licence renewed?’
