by Amitav Ghosh
Baburao was perfectly in agreement with me on this score: the Commissioner was not a man to be lightly defied, he said: he was sure to shut down the river. It was imperative that the exchange be concluded before that happened.
Night had already fallen, so it was too late to set off for Fa-Tee immediately; we agreed instead that we would leave early the next day. So this morning I went down to the river and there, as arranged, was Baburao, in a covered sampan with your six pots carefully stowed in the shade (for it has been dreadfully hot here of late). We left at once, and I am glad to say I was not as hapless a guide as I had feared: on approaching Fa-Tee I was able to point out the creek which led, so far as I remembered, to the Pearl River Nursery.
It was only after we had entered the creek that we became aware of something very alarming. There were several officious-looking boats positioned ahead of us and the shores were swarming with troops.
You will not be surprised to learn, Puggly dear, that Baburao displayed greater presence of mind than your poor Robin: he pushed me under the sampan’s covering and told me to conceal myself amongst the plants. This I proceeded to do with the greatest celerity: I curled up like a kitten and cowered between your pots (no easy matter, I might add, Puggly dear, for that nasty Douglas fir of yours did not take kindly to my presence – not for nothing, I discovered, is it said to be armoured with ‘needles’).
Baburao, in the meanwhile, had kept our sampan on a steady course with the intention of declaring, if asked, that he was merely passing through the creek on the way to some other destination. Sure enough, shortly before the nursery, we were intercepted. Baburao was then questioned at length by an officer. You cannot conceive, Puggly dear, how terrifed I was – and not only was I palpitating with fear, I had also to suffer the most extreme discomfort (for your vile little currant bush had somehow succeeded in inserting a leaf into my nose – it was all I could do not to erupt into a paroxysm of sneezes).
But fortunately Baburao’s presence of mind did not fail him: I did not of course understand what he said to the officers, but it must have been persuasive for our sampan was allowed to proceed without being searched.
Baburao rowed on, at a steady pace, and as we were drawing abreast of the nursery I found a chink in the boat’s bamboo covering and put my eye to it. I should have been prepared by this time for the sight that met my eyes but alas, I was not: what I saw made my blood freeze. Suffice it to say that the citadels had been breached! The gates of the nursery, and the garden beyond, had been battered down, and many of Mr Chan’s men were lined up in a row, along the bund, with their hands tied behind their backs – to meet what fate I dare not think.
Of Mr Chan and Ah-med, I saw no sign, but nor did I look too closely, for the sight of that cordon of soldiers had filled my head, I must admit, with horrid imaginings: what if I had been there when it happened? What would have become of me?
Oh I dare not speak of it, Puggly dear – my belly quakes; I fear if I dwell too long on all the dreadful possibilities my trowsers will become a crêperie.
I had suspected for a while that Mr Chan – alias Lynchong, alias Ah Fey – is, let us say, a man of many parts. If this had not deterred me from seeking him out, it was only because of my incorrigible curiosity. I cannot deny that the intriguing story of Mr Chan’s life had piqued my interest: it seemed to me exceedingly peculiar that a man should love flowers as well as opium – and yet I see now that there is no contradiction in this, for are they not perhaps both a means to a kind of intoxication? Could it not even be said that one might lead inevitably to the other? Certainly there could be no opium without flowers – and of what else do dragon-chasers dream but of gardens of unearthly delight?
Be that as it may, Baburao and I could not but count ourselves singularly fortunate in having so lightly escaped from this little misadventure. On the way back we decided that the plants must be returned to you at once, for Baburao doubts that he will be able to keep them alive for long – and we know how precious they are to you and how far they have travelled. So for the nonce, Puggly dear, it may be best to plant them in your island nursery so that they may grow and propagate while awaiting more propitious times. I know this will come as a grievous disappointment to you and Mr Penrose – but it is some consolation, is it not, that the plants have lived to be traded another day? All is not lost yet, Puggly dear: if it seems so then I conjure you to reflect, if you will, on a Chinese aphorism that Jacqua taught me when we were together exploring the Way of the Brush: To gain, you must yield; to grasp, let go; to win, lose …
I have carried on at too great a length (as you can see, the shocks of this morning have not cured me of my chatterbox habits). Ominous portents have continued to accumulate even during the hour I have spent at my desk. The pounding on the roof has grown louder – Mr Markwick believes the authorities are constructing bridges, to connect the factories to the buildings on the other side of Thirteen Hong Street. This will allow them better access to the hongs and sentries will be posted on each roof, to keep the enclave under watch …
… and now, looking up from my desk I see dozens of men fleeing from the hongs. They are all local men – the cleaners and cooks and coolies who worked as servants for the fanquis. They are carrying bundles and bowlas on their heads and running as if from the plague …
… and now someone is pounding on my door … Baburao must have come to the hotel to snatch this letter away … not another word … here I must end.
*
It was unusually hot that afternoon so Neel and several others were sitting in the coolest room in the house – the empty godown that adjoined the kitchen – when one of the khidmatgars came running in.
Arré, come and see what’s happening outside!
Knocking over tumblers of water and sherbet, they jumped to their feet and went racing to the front door. On opening it, they found a stream of Chinese workmen hurrying through the covered corridor, on the far side of the courtyard: they were heading towards the hong’s gates, carrying their mats and clothes, pots and pans.
Amongst the foreigners who sojourned regularly in Canton, Bahram was one of the few who travelled with his own entourage of servants. Since it was far cheaper to employ local men, most of the other merchants relied on their compradors to provide them with cooks, cleaners and coolies – it was these men who were now on the move, all of them at the same time. It was as if they had received warning of an impending eruption and were racing to get away.
Jostling for a place in the throng, Neel found himself shoulder-to-shoulder with one of the coolies who regularly delivered provisions to the Achha Hong. ‘Attay! What for all you-fellow walkee chop-chop?’
‘Yum-chae have talkee – all China-yan must makee go. Can-na stay.’
They were at the Fungtai Hong’s gates now: on stepping into the Maidan, Neel saw that similar streams of coolies and servants were pouring out of all thirteen hongs. Many foreigners had gathered in knots, to watch the spectacle. Neel spotted Baboo Nob Kissin’s saffron-clad figure, standing under one of the flagpoles, and went to join him.
What is happening, Nob Kissin Baboo?
Obvious, isn’t it? said the gomusta. They are moving out all the natives. The enclave is going to be cut off and isolated from the city.
The exodus of the servants took only half an hour. Shortly after it ended several detachments of the local constabulary entered the Maidan. Some of the policemen fanned out, shouting orders and making announcements. Almost at once the barbers began to fold up their portable sunshades. The food vendors doused their fires and the men who hosted tabletop cricket-fights coaxed their insects back into their cages. While the hawkers and hucksters were packing up their gear, the other denizens of Fanqui-town – the touts and twicers and trolls – were also being rounded up and herded out.
In the meanwhile, on the other side of the Maidan, the river too was astir with activity. Several small flotillas of boats were being brought around to face the factories; when the manoeuvr
e was completed, it was seen that the vessels had been arranged to form a three-tiered barricade: the first and second rows consisted of tea-barges, each with several dozen men on board; the third row was formed by a string of cargo-lighters: they were moored tightly together, forming a continuous line and leaving no room for even the smallest boat to pass between them. Then, as if to make it doubly clear that escape was not to be contemplated, a detachment of soldiers dragged all the foreign-owned boats out of the water and beached them on the embankment.
See, said Baboo Nob Kissin, see how carefully they have planned it? It is as if they want to make sure that not even a frog or mouse will get away.
Neel suggested a walk and Baboo Nob Kissin joined him in taking a turn around Fanqui-town. They quickly discovered that every thoroughfare that provided access to the enclave had been sealed off: Hog Lane, New China Street and Old China Street were all blocked at the mouth, by pickets; no one could pass through without producing the right chop.
Thirteen Hong Street had become a kind of no-man’s-land: the rear entrances of the factories had been bricked up a while ago, and now infantrymen with matchlocks and cartouche-boxes had been stationed along the entire length of the street.
Around sunset, lantern-poles were set up all around the enclave: when the lanterns were lit the Maidan was bathed in an outpouring of light.
The atmosphere in the Achha Hong’s kitchen was subdued that evening, and on the Seth’s instructions Vico, Mesto and the kitchen-chokras spent a good deal of time compiling a complete inventory of the provisions in the pantry. It was found that there was enough daal, rice, sugar, flour and oil to last for a month, but the drinking water was down to a two-day supply.
What do you think they’re planning? said Vico. Do you think they mean to to starve us?
The discussion had scarcely begun when a line of coolies appeared at the front door: it turned out they had been sent by the authorities to disburse rations. No. 1 Fungtai Hong received, as its allotment, sixty live chickens, two sheep, four geese, fifteen tubs of drinking water, a tub of sugar, bags of biscuits, sacks of flour, jars of oil and much else.
I don’t understand, said Vico, scratching his head. Are they trying to fatten us or starve us?
Outside there was no let-up in the activity: through the night the Maidan resounded to conch-shells, gongs, shouted orders and sudden, unnerving cries of K’an-ch’o! and Tseaou-Ch’o! as the officers exhorted their men to stay alert. Sleep was difficult that night.
In the morning, after choti-hazri had been served in the kitchen, Neel went again to look at the Maidan: the transformation was startling to behold – it was as if a carnival-site had been transformed overnight into a parade-ground. All the usual denizens were gone and there were armed men everywhere – five hundred of them or more – marching about or standing watchfully under the flags and pennants of their individual units.
The changes continued as the day progressed: around mid-morning a gang of workmen appeared and set up a tent in the middle of the Maidan. This was then occupied by a group of linkisters, led by Old Tom, who was the seniormost member of his profession.
What exactly were they doing there?
Neel was sent to investigate and came back to report that they had been posted there to deal with any inquiries and complaints the foreigners might have. Should any foreigner need to have any washing done, for instance, he had only to bring it to the tent – the linkisters would make sure that it was properly taken care of.
This made the Seth’s mouth drop open. They are keeping us prisoners and they are worried about our laundry?
Ji, Sethji. They said they do not want any foreigner to suffer the least discomfort.
A short while later several large armchairs were carried out and placed in the shade of the British Hong’s balcony. A number of Co-Hong merchants then trooped into the Maidan and occupied the chairs – there they remained, all day and night, keeping vigil in relays. It was as if they were being made to do penance for their failure to persuade their foreign partners to surrender their contraband.
Now, in ones and twos, a bedraggled little group of travellers came stumbling out into the Maidan: some were European sailors and some were lascars. They had come to Fanqui-town on shore leave the day before: having passed out in the dens of Hog Lane, they had only now awoken to the changed reality of the enclave. Being trapped in Fanqui-town, they were now offering themselves for employment.
Since many of the enclave’s merchants had lost their servants, this news caused great excitement in the factories: seasoned old traders came running half-dressed from the hongs and tripped over each other as they fell upon the mariners. None of the booze-befuddled sailors failed to find employment: in a matter of minutes they were dragged off to the hongs, to serve this master or that.
In the middle of the afternoon when the Maidan was baking in the glare of the sun, Baboo Nob Kissin burst into the Achha Hong with a cry for help: ‘Bachao! Emergency! Rescue measures must be immediately implemented!’
‘What has happened, Baboo Nob Kissin?’
‘Cows! They are suffering from heat-strokes and sun-rashes!’
It turned out that the departure of the enclave’s Chinese employees had deprived Fanqui-town’s small herd of cows of their caretakers; they were now suffering dreadfully in the mid-day heat. Their plight had wrung the heart of the cow-loving milkmaid who lurked within Baboo Nob Kissin’s bosom: he would not rest until Neel had recruited a team of khidmatgars to help him erect a makeshift shelter of bamboo matting over the cattle-pen.
Towards the end of the day a new militia made its appearance in the Maidan: it had been drafted almost entirely from the corps of men who had worked as servants in the foreign factories. Now they were armed with pikes, lances and staves and were smartly dressed in jackets with red cummerbunds. Every man was carrying a rattan shield; on every head was a sturdy conical hat, inscribed with large Chinese characters.
Neel recognized several of the men. He was taken aback by the change in their demeanour: while working as servants they had been scruffily clothed and subservient in manner; now, attired in their new uniforms, they formed as proud a troop as he had ever seen.
For dinner that night Mesto served up a chicken feast: batter-fried marghi na farcha and a savoury alleti-paleti made of gizzards; a creamy marghi na mai vahala with fine shreds of meat; and crisp frilly cutlets.
Why, it’s a burra-khana! said Neel. Is there some reason for it?
Vico nodded: The Seth hasn’t left the hong in days, not since he came back from Mr Dent’s in such a hurry. Mesto has made some of his favourite Parsi dishes in the hope of rousing him from his gloom.
*
Next morning a notice, addressed to Bahram, was delivered to the Achha Hong by Captain Elliott’s personal secretary. It was an urgent summons to a meeting at the Consulate. It could not be ignored so Bahram quickly changed his clothes and made his way to the doorway of the hong.
Although he had not been outside in the last few days, Bahram had observed the activity in the Maidan from his window and had some idea of what to expect – and yet, once at ground level, he realized that the atmosphere of the Maidan had changed even more than he had thought. He had never imagined that a day would come when he would find Fanqui-town empty of swadders and buttoners. Like many other foreigners he had always regarded the enclave’s cheap-jacks as something of a nuisance and had often wished them gone – it had not occurred to him that their absence would leave the enclave so much diminished in spirit.
It was true, of course, that it had not been easy to cross the Maidan when it was a-swarm with mumpers and mucksnipes – but to do it now, under the frowning gaze of guardsmen, was more unpleasant by far. What made it worse still was that Bahram knew by sight many of the guards who were now patrolling the enclave with staves and pikes in hand. One, for instance, was a steward from the Club: it was strangely disconcerting to be stared at, as if you were some kind of escaped jailbird, by a man who had jus
t the other day appeared at your elbow with a plate of roast duck. This was, in a way, the most unsettling part of it: it was as if the hidden mechanisms of Canton’s economy had suddenly been laid bare for all to see; even the lowliest servants and tradesmen – people who had, in the past, fallen over themselves to please the fanquis – now had a look of judgement and appraisal in their eyes.
Nowhere was the cordon of security tighter than around the British Factory: ever since Dent had entered the Consulate, the whole compound had been kept under close watch, to prevent his escape. The Co-Hong merchants too had stationed themselves there, as if to shame their erstwhile partners into giving up their goods. To reach the entrance, Bahram had to step past their chairs; they nodded stiffly at each other, their faces unsmiling and impassive.
On entering the British Factory, Bahram was met by a detachment of sepoys: they were aware of who he was and one of them led him to the Consulate’s library, where the meeting was to be held. This was a large, elegant room with tall shelves of leather-bound books ranged against the walls. At the far end, under a gilded mirror, was a fireplace and above it, a mantelpiece. The room was already full when Bahram arrived: glancing around it, Bahram saw that every member of the Committee was present and many others besides.
Captain Elliott was standing with his back to the mantelpiece, facing the gathering: he was dressed in full naval uniform and cut an imposing, soldierly figure, with a sword at his waist. He knew Bahram by sight and they exchanged nods as Bahram took a seat at the back.
The tip of the Captain’s sword now rattled against the fireplace, as if to call the meeting to order. Holding himself stiffly erect, Captain Elliott said: ‘Gentlemen, I have invited you here today so that you may be informed of the outcome of my attempts to negotiate with Commissioner Lin. I addressed a letter to the provincial authorities two days ago, asking that travel permits be issued to all of you. I stated also that if this was not done, I would reluctantly be driven to the conclusion that the men and ships of my country had been forcibly detained and would act accordingly. I noted further that the peace between our two countries has been placed in imminent jeopardy by the alarming proceedings of the authorities in Canton. At the same time I assured them also that it was my desire to keep the peace. My letter was duly transmitted to the High Commissioner. I am now in receipt of his reply.’
