River of Smoke it-2

by Amitav Ghosh

  ‘What?’ said Slade. ‘No custard? No port?’

  Bahram smiled and shook his head: ‘No, not tonight, if you please.’

  ‘Of course. A good night’s sleep will give you back your appetite.’

  ‘Yes. Good night, Lancelot. John.’

  ‘Good night.’

  Bahram went quickly down the stairs, pulling his choga tight around his shoulders. On stepping outside the Chamber’s premises he paused, of long habit, to look around for Apu his lantern-bearer. Ordinarily Vico, or someone else, would have made sure that Apu had been sent to fetch him – but today was no ordinary day, so he was not surprised to find the courtyard empty of lantern-bearers.

  Setting off at a brisk pace, Bahram emerged from the Danish Hong to find himself alone on the Maidan, with a thick fog rolling in from the river. The waterfront was already obscured as was much of the Maidan, but pinpricks of light could be seen in the windows of all the factories.

  In the distance, on the far side of White Swan Lake, fireworks were still shooting into the sky. On exploding the rockets created a peculiar effect in the fog, sparking a diffuse glow that seemed to linger in the tendrils of mist. During one of these bursts of illumination Bahram caught sight of a gowned man, some ten paces ahead. He could only see his back but there was no mistaking his walk.

  ‘Allow?!’

  There was no answer and the fog had gone dark in the meanwhile. But then another rocket exploded overhead and Bahram caught sight of him again. He raised his voice: ‘Allow! Chin-chin! What-for Allow no speakee Mister Barry?’

  Again there was no answer.

  Bahram was quickening his pace when he heard Vico’s voice, echoing out of the fog: Patrao! Patrao! Where are you?

  He turned to see a lamp bobbing in the gloom.

  Here, Vico!

  Stay there, patrao. Wait.

  Bahram came to a stop and a couple of minutes later Vico’s lamplit face loomed out of the fog.

  I was coming to fetch you, patrao, said Vico. The lantern-walas weren’t around today and what with the fog and all I thought you might need a light. I was on my way to the Club when I heard your voice. Who was that you were speaking to?

  Allow, said Bahram.

  Who? Vico’s eyes suddenly grew very large: Who did you say?

  Allow. He was right in front of me. Didn’t you see him?

  No, patrao.

  Vico put a hand on Bahram’s arm and turned him in the direction of the Achha Hong.

  It couldn’t have been Allow, patrao. You must have seen someone else.

  What do you mean, Vico? said Bahram in surprise. I’m almost sure it was Allow. He was just ahead of me.

  Vico shook his head. No, patrao. It must have been someone else.

  Why do you keep saying that, Vico? I’m telling you. I saw Allow.

  No, patrao, you could not have seen him, said Vico gently. See, patrao, Allow had not run away as we had thought. It turns out that he had been arrested.

  Oh? Bahram ran a finger over his beard. Have they let him off then? How is it that he was out on the Maidan?

  Vico came to a stop and put his hand on Bahram’s arm.

  That was not Allow, patrao. Allow is dead. It was he who was to be executed in the Maidan this morning. The authorities have just announced the name: it was Ho Lao-kin – that was what Allow was called, remember? After the riot he was taken to the execution grounds. He was strangled this afternoon.

  Part III

  Commissioner Lin

  Thirteen

  January 4

  1839!!

  Never before has it happened to me, Puggly dear, that I have started a letter in one year and ended it in the next! It could not be helped, however, for the traffic on the river has been frozen all this while. But only this morning there was word that the ban may soon be lifted – and being thus reminded of this unfinished letter, I have retrieved these pages from the drawer in which they have languished since December 12th.

  Having now re-read the last entry I have decided to leave intact the interrupted sentence with which it ended: for just as the half-eaten meals on the tables of Pompeii are proof of the unforeseen nature of Etna’s eruption, this little fragment too bears witness to the suddenness with which the riots of December 12th burst upon us in Canton.

  Since news needs no boats to travel in, word of those events will, I warrant, have reached you before this letter. Instead of burdening you with my own account of the riots I am enclosing a copy of Mr Slade’s report in the Canton Register. Suffice it to say that the events unfolded in front of my very eyes and in looking back it strikes me that it was a most fortunate turn of kismet that led to my being seated at my desk at the time of their commencement. I was thus preserved from Bodily Injury (which was not the case with some who were wandering abroad in the Maidan); and being granted a privileged point of vantage, I was spared the temptation also of venturing closer to the Scene.

  It is surely no secret to you, my dear Puggla’zelle, that your poor Robin does not aspire to be a Hero, so you will not be surprised to learn that I did not stir from my room until order had been restored. In the late afternoon I was informed by Zadig Bey that Captain Elliott, the British Superintendent, had arrived in Fanqui-town and was shortly to address all the foreign residents. Being assured that there was no risk to my Person, I decided to accompany Zadig Bey to the meeting, which was to be held in the British Hong, across the Maidan from Markwick’s Hotel.

  The enclave was, by this time, perfectly tranquil, with guards posted everywhere and no sign of the usual vendors and loiterers. Yet, evidence of the recent Upheaval was littered around us; shards of glass glistened in the dust; fence posts lay scattered about, like twigs after a storm, having been uprooted and hurled against the factory walls; and the gates of some of the factories were so badly battered it seemed a miracle their hinges had not given way.

  The American Hong in particular had suffered a great deal of damage: this is where Charlie resides and I was shocked to see that the windows of his daftar – the very room where he had been sitting for me – were shattered! I am of course something of a Worrier, Puggly dear, so you will understand how relieved I was when we came upon Charlie shortly afterwards and found him unharmed. He was however in a state of great agitation, having witnessed the riots with a sense of dire foreboding. The disturbances were proof, he said, that the foreign merchants are utterly mistaken in their belief that the populace is not in accord with their rulers on the matter of opium. They are, on the contrary, wholly supportive of the official measures against the drug; indeed there is immense public indignation at the impunity of the foreigner – else the people would not have turned upon us all at once, and we would not have needed police protection against them.

  ‘The smuggling of opium has lost us the affections of the good, has made us panders to the appetites of the bad, and we may well fear lest we one day suffer by the outbreakings of passions to whose excitement we ourselves have ministered.’

  Among the educated classes, many have come to be convinced, said Charlie, that the foreign traders are like children, and are unacquainted with reason (which they call Taou-le). That the mandarins had resorted to the extreme and unprecedented step of ordering an execution in the Maidan was a sure sign, he said, that they had abandoned all hope of being able to communicate with the foreign community through other, more reasonable, means.

  We were all agreed, of course, that the method employed was a deplorable one – yet none of us doubted that it was indeed the mandarins’ intention to awaken the fanquis to a reckoning of the consequences of their own actions. This was why, on entering ‘Company Hall’, where the meeting was to be held, we were all stricken with dismay: for no sign of remorse – or indeed even the faintest acceptance of culpability – was visible in the mien of the foreign merchants who had gathered within. Their attitude was expressive rather of an increased belligerence; their regrets seemed to be centred solely on their failure to mount a more aggressive de
fence of the enclave.

  Such was the mood that we began to ask ourselves whether Captain Elliott had any chance of succeeding where the mandarins had failed. Would he even recognize the delicts of the fanquis? I was inclined to be hopeful: not being a trader himself it seemed likely to me that the Captain would see the Situation from a different point of view.

  Zadig Bey was not sanguine. The most important thing to know about Captain Elliott, he said, is that he is a Pucka Sahib: the colonies are to him what water is to a fish – his element, his breath, his being. He is the son of a former Governor of Madras, the nephew of a Governor General of India and has spent many years serving in the British Navy. Neither his birth nor his training are of such a kind as to dispose him to act against the interests of his peers.

  And what manner of man is he? I asked, to which Zadig Bey replied: ‘Everything you need to know about him you will see when he steps in front of you and begins to speak.’

  Zadig Bey was not wrong.

  When at last Captain Elliott appeared, he was in full uniform, with a sword strapped to his waist. This was well-judged, I think, for his appearance was certainly impressive enough to quiet the commotion and restore order to the hall. But that was more the doing of the Accoutrements than of the man himself – for even I, who have a talent for such things, am at a loss to conjure up the image of the Captain’s face (although I can recall, with perfect clarity, the colours and cut of his clothing).

  Captain Elliott is so Pucka, so much the soldierly Sahib, that his visage has become a part of his uniform – it seems to belong not to one man alone but to an entire platoon of men, all clad in blue, with close-cropped hair and trimmed moustaches. When he spoke, his voice too seemed to issue from the weather end of a naval quarter-deck: it was unemphatic and authoritative, the kind of voice that might be expected to exhort reason on everyone. And so it did: the mandarins must be reasonable, he said, and desist from strangling people in the Maidan; but the British Traders had to be reasonable too; they must desist from openly smuggling opium into Canton, in their own boats. The British government had strongly reprobated this practice, which brought disrepute on the Empire; he was determined to put a stop to it and would even offer his co-operation to the Chinese authorities in this regard. amp;c. amp;c.

  In other words, the Captain’s objections were directed against the business of sending contraband up the Pearl River in British boats. Of the larger matters – the many opium ships that are anchored off the Outer Islands, and indeed, the whole question of sending the drug from India to China – he made no mention. And how indeed could he, considering that the making and selling of opium is sponsored and supported by the very Empire that he represents?

  I confess I left Company Hall with a feeling of intense trepidation in my heart. Zadig Bey too was not reassured by what he had heard. He is convinced that the Situation has passed beyond the control of both Captain Elliott and the mandarins. The foreign merchants will brook no interference, he said, either from the Chinese or from the British Representative: they are convinced that the doctrine of Free Trade has given them licence to do exactly as they please. And amongst the people of Canton there is mounting anger at the impunity with which the foreigners defy the law: if not for the police, says Zadig Bey, the townsfolk would surely have torched the factories and driven the fanquis out of the city.

  I thought then that Zadig Bey had overstated the matter a little. But it was not long before I discovered that he had not erred one whit in his estimation of the temper of the townspeople – and when you hear of how I made this discovery you will understand full well, Puggly dear, why I was, for many days afterwards, too downcast to leave my bed.

  For this is how it happened:

  It had been arranged between Jacqua and myself that he would come to sit for me on the afternoon of the 13th (the day after the Disturbances). I stayed in and waited, almost until sunset; when he failed to appear I went to Lamqua’s studio to inquire after him. The moment I stepped in I knew something frightful had occurred, for instead of the usual smiling chin-chins I was greeted with sullen stares and peevish frowns.

  Of Jacqua there was no sign and none of the apprentices would tell me what had become of him: to learn what had come to pass I had to apply to Lamqua himself.

  This is what I heard: on the morning of the riot Jacqua and his fellow apprentices were at their benches, in the studio, when the troops went marching past the studio. Their curiosity being aroused, they downed their brushes and ran out to the Maidan, disregarding Lamqua’s pleas. So it happened that they were in the way when the foreigners went on the rampage: Jacqua had the misfortune to be set upon by a group of drunken sailors and lascars and sustained a blow that broke his arm.

  You may imagine, Puggly dear, the grievous effect this had on me! I will not conceal from you that I wept! I would have gone at once to see my wounded Friend, but of course his home is within the forbidden city – and even if that were not so, I could not have gone. Lamqua told me that it would not be wise for a fanqui to venture abroad at that time, for fear of attracting the ire of the townsfolk.

  And as if all this were not crushing enough already, I was waylaid, on my way out of the studio, by some of the apprentices. These boys, who had been so friendly before, now proceeded to bombard me with galees and Contumely. What exactly they said I cannot remember but the burden of it was that we fanquis were little better than dacoits and murderers; that we did not understand the restraints of civilization and did not deserve to live in Canton – amp;c. amp;c.

  Knowing me as you do, Puggly dear, you will perhaps understand why I was quite overwhelmed and could not for many days bring myself to step out of my room. Christmas came and then the New Year and although I had received a few invitations, I remained inside. The thought of plunging into fanqui-dom again, and of perhaps encountering the men who had set upon Jacqua, made me feel, I confess, quite desolate.

  Often enough in the past have I wished that I had never been born, but never has that sentiment resonated as strongly within my bosom as it did then. I told myself I should leave Canton, that it was Wrong and Unconscionable to remain in a place where one was unwelcome – but nor could I rid my mind of the thought that nowhere else would I find the Happiness I had enjoyed here. How could I abandon the one place that had offered me the treasure I had always sought and never found – Friendship?

  If not for Zadig Bey I do not know what would have become of me – it was only because of him that I did not starve. Charlie too came to see me a couple of times, but he has had very little time to spare nowadays, being much preoccupied with the Situation: he has decided to take out a petition urging all foreigners to renounce the opium trade and surrender their stocks. Predictably, this effort has met only with anger and derision: as a result, poor Charlie is himself now mired in despond and in no position to bring cheer to his friends.

  How long I would have remained in that state of despair I do not know, but I am certain that my time of affliction would have been greatly extended if not for Zadig Bey: on New Year’s Day, he dangled before me the prospect of fulfilling a long-yearned-for desire – of seeing Canton from the heights of the Sea-Calming Tower. He had for some time been telling me that I should leave my room and that the Situation had greatly improved since the departure of the horrible Mr Innes (and yes, he has indeed left the city). I discovered now that he had even arranged a litter for me, anticipating perhaps that I might claim to be too enfeebled for a long walk. Being robbed of this pretext I could not refuse to go with him – and I am inordinately glad that I did not: for it is indeed a most marvellous experience to see the entire city spread out before your eyes!

  You may remember, Puggly dear, that I once showed you a copy of El Greco’s ‘View of Toledo’? Try to imagine those grey walls greatly extended and so shaped as to form the outline of a gigantic bell: that will give you an idea of the contours of Canton’s walled city. Inside, it is cross-hatched with innumerable streets and avenues: some of the r
oadways are like narrow galis while others are broad boulevards, spanned by triumphal arches: but no matter whether wide or narrow, the thoroughfares are all perfectly straight and intersect at right angles. The quarters and districts are easy to tell apart: the areas where the Manchu officials have their yamens are as evident to the eye as the neighbourhoods that contain the huddled hutments of the poor. The public places and monuments stand out like the tallest pieces on a chessboard, their positions being marked with cascading roofs and soaring spires.

  Only now did I discover how fortunate I was in having an Amanuensis like Zadig Bey: he has studied the city closely and is familiar with all its landmarks. He had brought a spyglass with him and he pointed the sights out to me, one by one. The first, as I remember, was the mandir that marks the founding of the city – which happened, he said, at about the same time as Rome! And as with Rome, it is said that the gods had a hand in Canton’s birth: five Devas are said to have descended from the heavens to mark a spot on the bank of the river: the immortals were mounted on rams, each with a stalk of grain in its mouth; these they gave to the people on the shore with the blessing: ‘May Hunger Never Visit Your Markets’.

  I must admit that the strange tale, and the sight of the forbidden city, lying outspread at my feet, had a powerful effect upon me. More than ever it made me conscious of my Alien-ness, of the distance between myself and this city. I remembered the galees those apprentices had hurled at me and it struck me that perhaps they had only been telling the truth: perhaps it was indeed an unforgivable intrusion for one such as myself to seek to impose his presence upon a place that is so singular, so ancient, so completely an outgrowth of its own soil.

  But Zadig Bey would have none of it: the true surprise of Canton, he said, is that its streets and lanes are strewn with reminders of the presence of Aliens. ‘Why,’ he said, ‘even the city’s guardian deity is a foreigner – an Achha in fact!’