The old man wiped a trickle of perspiration from his face and addressed the officer, who handed him a small silk purse that had the rattle of coins in it.
“I believe, gentlemen,” remarked Lord Douglas, “that this is our new home.”
The rooms within were sparsely furnished but large and might have accommodated thirty men. Lord Douglas was given a separate room across the hallway, which I suspected had been reserved for an officer or gentleman; it was more lavishly appointed and featured a handsome, shuttered door that led directly out into the courtyard.
Four tubs of hot water for bathing were set up for us in an adjoining compartment. We bathed, then dined that evening beneath the cypress tree amid flickering candles. My fellows made a show of sniffing at the strange meat on their plates and the unfamiliar greens, but ate heartily. That night was the first night I had slept in a bed in many months.
Chapter 18
Our New Interpreter
In the morning, while most of us were scrubbing out our clothes, Mr. Rollin returned from a dawn inspection of the city.
“I’ve found the route back to the harbor and the ship,” he boasted. “East by northeast. Nigh every street leads to it. Made my way back by sighting this tree, which can be seen a league away.”
“Any sign of the Sovereign?” asked Woodman.
“None at all,” replied Mr. Rollin. “And I reconnoitered a mile in each direction. Not a European ship at anchor.”
“We’ll just have to hope she made it,” said Mr. Jacobs. “I expect a day or two will tell.”
I happily idled away the morning by setting off to explore the precincts of Canton. I strolled for hours, keeping mainly to the central avenues. The city was awash with commerce; shops, market places and street venders peddled every imaginable article amid great clamor.
Green, writhing turtles were in rich abundance, as were poultry of every sort, fish, and butchered meat from a stock that bore no resemblance to any animal I could name. In addition to these, there was a thriving market for lizards and monkeys. The proprietors keep the swarms of flies at bay by languidly brushing at them with palm leaves.
The pageant of the citizens of Canton was not less captivating than the markets. Most were poor; of these a prodigious number labored under some infirmity, either crippled with age or lame. The women were hard-faced and wary. Every man had a shaved head and pigtail like those on the heads of the ones I had seen in Amoy. I reasoned that the able-bodied men had been pressed into the Emperor’s army, leaving grandfathers, women and children to sustain themselves. The rich—mostly Manchu, I learned later—traveled with escorts or were carried about in carts.
Soldiers were ever present, slouching in the shadows beside the ancient buildings or standing beneath a shade tree, watchful of the passing crowds.
I reached a crossing where several of the avenues converged that was marked by a tidy row of trees, behind which was a high wall. I walked along the wall, peering past guards who guarded the entrances into a vast courtyard and caught sight of a splendid palace within. It was then by chance that I glimpsed the second officer we met on the previous day as he came charging out through a gate on horseback in a cloud of dust. He paused for just an instant when he saw me standing there, then rode off. Though I saw no sign of her, I knew this glorious estate was where Wen Xi had been taken.
I returned to the barracks shortly after to find Lord Douglas sitting on a bench beneath the cypress tree, bent over a collection of sketches of a coffin that he had spent the morning making on rice paper. It appeared he had been waiting for someone to pass, for he waved me over and gestured to them.
“I’ve hired a local carpenter,” said he. “What do you think?”
He had clearly anguished over each trifling detail, including the selection of woods, its thickness, and the fabric to line its interior. Mr. Brooks’ initials were to be carved on the lid. The latches were to be made of plain polished bronze, six in all, to be placed a precisely measured distance apart.
I made a show of studying the design, and pointing to the latches made complementary remarks. He brandished still more of the sketches, which detailed the lid of the coffin more closely.
“Well?” he asked. “Do you think Mr. Brooks would approve?”
His question presented me with an opportunity for revenge. In his way, Greyson had been as cruel to me as Mr. Brooks. I saw him now as a part of my misfortune. Rebellion mingled with my broken pride and malevolent anger. He wanted empathy, a partner; instead I longed to slip a silent dagger into his heart.
“It is an elegant design, my lord,” I said, a note of reserve hanging in my voice. “I believe he would be pleased, sir.”
“Is it not ornate enough?”
“I don’t believe he’d have more,” I replied.
“Well, what do you see is missing, Mr. Wren?” he demanded.
“Nothing, sir.”
With finality, Lord Douglas collected the sketches from the roots of the tree, separated his final choices and bound them with a strand of hemp.
“Will he be buried here or in England, my lord?” I asked, affecting a light inquiry. His eyes flickered up at me with irritation. “China is foreign soil.”
“He would not have enjoyed a months-long, happy boat ride back to his own soil, would he?” Greyson growled. “Sloshing away in the hold.”
“I don’t know, my lord,” I replied, subtly teasing out his torment. “It’s difficult to fathom what the proper course would be.”
“Soil is soil,” he muttered. “There’s nothing remarkable about it.”
“He would have few to visit him here and pay respects, would he, sir?” I said. “Tend his grave, I mean.”
His expression was inflamed with anger, which I pretended not to notice.
“You test my patience, Wren.”
“Whatever choice you make, my lord,” I said, “I’m sure it will be the wise one and you will have relieved your obligation.”
“Obligation? Do you mean guilt, Wren?”
“I mean duty, sir.”
I bowed stiffly and departed for our room, nearly knocking over the Chinese carpenter who was just entering the courtyard.
I had cast caution to the wind, but so much convoluted hatred festered in me that I had to strike back through whatever vein carried the most poison. I wanted respect, the same respect a man would offer a biting dog. In the days that followed Lord Douglas never again broached the subject of Mr. Brooks to any of us.
Early the next morning the rising heat and humidity augured a dreadful day. I was loitering outside, watching the noisy traffic when I espied a small figure hustling toward me, his eyes fixed on the only Occidental in the street. He was an emaciated fellow, with white hair and a harried, distrustful aspect. He had a wide mouth that hung open as if set on broken hinges, vulgarly displaying a cracked, grey tongue and decaying teeth. His heavy, drab habit was filthy and rancid, and one would presume punishing in the heat.
“Lord Douglas?” he inquired in flawless English. “I am Father Jose Diego. I am looking for Douglas Greyson. I have been sent by the Emperor’s merchant guild.”
“He’s within,” I said.
He followed me into our lodgings and down the dark, peeling corridor that led to Greyson’s room. I politely called in and he bid us enter. Lord Douglas was reclining on what the proprietor called a Luohan bed, which had ornate carved borders on three sides. Greyson had his sketches leaning against one of the walls along with a new one—of a headstone.
“Father Diego,” I said, introducing the priest. “Says he’s with—”
“—The merchant guild kindly wishes to meet with you, “he interjected impatiently. “I am to serve as your interpreter.”
Greyson regarded the priest from the bald crown of his head down to the rude sandals on his feet.
“Why you, Father?”
“They trust me, sir,” replied the priest brusquely. “I have lived in China these twenty-two years and speak the language. I
have a monastery just beyond the city wall. I know their ways and they know mine.”
“The merchant guild?”
“They are merchants sanctioned by the Emperor,” said the priest. “They enjoy his favor and his authority and are important members of trade.”
Greyson swung his feet off the bed and sat up, looking at the man directly in his rheumy green eye.
“I believed I was to meet with the Emperor himself.”
“No,” answered the man. “These gentlemen act at his behest.”
“When is this meeting to occur?” inquired Lord Douglas.
“Immediately, if that is acceptable to you,” he responded. “They are but a short distance from here.”
Lord Douglas agreed, and insisted that I come along to make a proper record of the proceedings. When we reached the street Greyson continued his interview with the priest, who went barreling along at nearly a canter, oblivious to the wretched heat. He explained that he had come from Spain to spread Catholicism. He meant to stay only a few years, but had remained here ever since.
“The Chinese people are quite a religious lot,” he informed us. “Yet they refuse to accept one God to the exclusion of all others. That’s the difficulty for me, you see. They like the odds in having many religions and many gods. These people have a trunk full of desires and pray from one to the other for their fulfillment.” Here the little man let out an amused chuckle. “They play gods like the Englishman plays whist.”
“Is there any formality I should be—”
“They may nod and nod and nod as if they comprehend and agree,” said Father Diego, anticipating the question. “You discover later they had their own understanding that they did not share with you.” He paused, slowing Lord Douglas with a hand on his arm. “It is pleasant to speak English again. I do so too rarely. I suggest you ask directly what any agreement is, then repeat it back to them again and again. When they stop nodding, they have accepted it.”
“I have an authorized understanding with the Emperor—” began Greyson, only to be cut off again.
“An inch of time is an inch of gold,” remarked the priest. “They will wear your understanding down with patience that is as hard as stone.”
“Anything else?”
“Bow when you are introduced. The Chinese don’t care to be touched, particularly by foreigners.”
The priest led us to a large building, unremarkable except for the two imposing red lacquered doors, which were supported by equally imposing hinges made of brass. Two men were sitting on the step outside the doors. They rose and bowed to Father Diego as he approached. With a dismissive gesture and a sharp remark in Chinese, he sent one of the men inside. An instant later, the man returned, spreading the door open wide so we might enter.
We followed him a few short paces into a large reception area. A series of beautifully decorated columns bordered the meeting area, which was open to the sky above, so the room was partly in dark shadow and blanched sunlight. Where all else was rich red tile, the sitting area itself was sunken into the main floor and lined with rough white stones of some variety. At the center was a wide, low mahogany table around which sat six Chinese gentlemen on rude stone seats. Smoke from their pipes and the hot vapors of tea filled the chamber, collected, then went spinning out the opening above their heads, past a perimeter of red silk bunting. The table was laid out with foods on colorful platters.
For Lord Douglas this was the moment, the culmination of all his efforts. He pulled himself erect and bowed politely to the assembly. To the man, each was elegantly attired in black, silk caps and finely embroidered coats with wide sleeves. The Chinese gentlemen rose and bowed. The fellow at the head of the table addressed himself smilingly to the priest.
“You are most welcome,” interpreted Father Diego. “Our country is honored by your presence. On behalf of the emperor, we wish to express our high regard for your efforts in our war with General Zhang…”
This preamble droned on for several minutes before it was settled that we should take our seats and tilt the conversation toward the trade agreement Lord Douglas sought. A comely young woman servant seated us at the table and filled our plates, moving about with such weightless grace that she seemed almost a fairy. While we ate, business was only brought up obliquely, with flattering praise for the English merchant and for the courage of seeking markets in distant lands. When it was learned that my purpose was to make a record of the meeting, writing implements and a small desk were secured.
According to our Chinese hosts, several hectares of “highly desirable land” had been set aside for the British East India Company at the northern end of the port for a trading settlement. In unison they assured Lord Douglas that the compound was among the finest locations available in all of Canton, and was four times the size of a Dutch trading post in Macau.
“Will the parcel be under British sovereignty?” asked Greyson.
The question was interpreted and much animated discussion followed among the Chinese.
“They are surprised by and suspicious of your request,” muttered the priest discreetly.
I now comprehended Father Diego’s remark about “hard stone,” for our seats I found uncomfortable in the extreme, and as the morning stretched into a torrid afternoon and the negotiations ranged endlessly from trifles to substantive, the stones pressed the conditions for compromise. Yet Lord Douglas remained firm on sovereignty.
The man at the head of the table spoke to Father Diego in a blunt tone, which was relayed to Lord Douglas.
“It’s not the Emperor’s custom,” repeated the priest,” to give pieces of China to foreigners.”
“It must be leased then, but our company must retain the Crown’s legal authority on that patch of earth,” insisted Lord Douglas. “Tell them, Father Diego, that we require dominion over the trading post.”
“The Emperor has not agreed to this,” replied the head fellow through translation, with exquisite politeness.
“I believe he has agreed,” returned Greyson, with equal condescension. “I know the honorable Emperor would not retract his word.”
“We shall inform the Emperor of your request,” returned the man. “But this may take time.”
It wasn’t until the items of trade were introduced that I saw a cloud of despair cross Greyson’s face. Tea, spices, porcelain, and numerous other commodities were discussed. All of these could only be purchased exclusively through the merchant guild on terms set by them.
“The British East India Company will pay in gold or silver,” said our host, with the others nodding their agreement.
“Yet we have goods from England that we wish to trade.”
“There is no market for English goods in China,” replied the gentleman, motioning for the servant to fill our cups again. “What you produce is not popular in my country. Only gold or silver.”
Greyson looked stricken.
“What I had proposed, gentlemen, was a two-way trade between our countries,” he said.
“And so it is,” came the crafty reply. “What we sell will be traded for gold or silver.”
The conversation meandered to other points of business, but I could read from Lord Douglas’s detachment that the guild’s refusal to trade in goods was a sobering disappointment. Even cotton, indigo dye, and saltpeter from company factories in Levant, Bengal and Bombay were refused a market. The Chinese businessmen, secure in their advantage, would accept nothing from the outside world. If they controlled the price and the currency, they controlled the marketplace and could dictate the profits of any company within its orbit. Lord Douglas’s grand dream had fallen from being a trading partner to servant of the Emperor.
The prize was eight hectares of land in a remote, abandoned corner of the port. A dozen or so falling-down warehouses, barely clinging to survival, leaned against one another in a stumbling fraternity. A rat dashing here and there marked the only life within them. The yard was checkered with balding patches of tall weeds and moldering ru
bble. Long-abandoned crates and fragments of old chests were piled high in places, the busy homes of spiders and ants. Large sections of the dock had long ago slipped beneath the water, and the neat rows of bearded planks could be seen beneath the water’s surface. Gulls were squabbling everywhere and their mocking cries rose as we approached.
Lord Douglas wandered his new estate aimlessly for an hour while the rest of us found shade from the sun. James Graham, one of the marines, who knew something of dock building, stripped off his clothing and dove into the river to survey the riverbed. He came up several times to take a breath, then returned below. His head bobbed up a hundred yards out like a chip of bark. When he finally returned to shore, Lord Douglas was waiting for him.
“Well, Mr. Graham?”
“Silty soil, sir,” reported Graham, still catching his breath; “soft as mush. That’s why these docks failed. Other problems, too.”
“What?”
“The water twenty-five yards out is shallow,” said Graham, pointing. “Any ship with a deep draft cannot approach. It cannot be dredged. You’d have to push out fifty yards where the water is deeper. Also, a ship can’t careen in mud if she needs repairs. You’ll never get her on her keel again.”
“The Chinese have given us the weakest spot on the river,” Greyson said under his breath, looking about at the land and water. “Is it workable, Mr. Graham?”
“The pilings would have to be sunk deep with cross members to keep them stable,” instructed Mr. Graham, cutting a piling and cross members with his fingers. “It will take time.”
“And investment,” added Greyson. Lord Douglas’s grey eyes contemplated the cinders of his sweet vision. “I fear that old priest and I will become great friends.”
Before we departed, Greyson salvaged a long straight timber from one of the fallen structures, perhaps twenty feet in length. He carried it to a place beside the river that stood nearly at the center of the land. Using a scrap of iron, he dug a hole deep into the soft earth. Greyson had carried with him a crude English flag which he had made and dyed with his own hand. With the help of the others and myself, he set the timber solidly into the hole and hoisted our colors.
Mean Sun (The Diaries of Daniel Wren, Privateer Book 1) Page 16
