China

by Edward Rutherfurd

“I know almost nothing about the distant lands across the sea,” Shi-Rong remarked.

  “Nobody does,” his father said. “It wasn’t always so,” he added. “About four centuries ago, in the days of the Ming dynasty, we had a great fleet of ships that traded with many western lands. But it became unprofitable. Now the ships come to us. And the empire is so huge…There is nothing we cannot produce ourselves. The barbarians need what we have, not the reverse.”

  “They certainly want our tea,” Shi-Rong agreed. “And I have heard that if they cannot obtain enough of our rhubarb herb, they die.”

  “It may be so,” his father said. “But I see your aunt has food for us.”

  Soup; dumplings stuffed with pork; noodles, with mutton and vegetables, sprinkled with coriander. Only now, as the rich aromas greeted him, did Shi-Rong realize how hungry he was. To his aunt’s obvious joy, his father took a little food also, to keep him company.

  As they ate, he ventured to ask his father about his health.

  “I am growing old, my son,” his father responded. “It is to be expected. But even if I died tomorrow—which I shall not—I should be happy to know that our family estate is to pass to a worthy son.”

  “I beg you, live many years,” Shi-Rong replied. “Let me show you my success and give you grandchildren.” He saw his aunt nod approvingly at this.

  “I shall do my best,” his father promised with a smile.

  “He must eat more,” his aunt said. And Shi-Rong affectionately put a dumpling in his father’s bowl.

  At the end of the meal, seeing his father looked tired, Shi-Rong asked him if he wanted to rest.

  “When do you leave tomorrow?” his father asked. “At dawn?”

  “In the morning. But not at dawn.”

  “I am not ready to sleep yet. Say goodnight to your aunt. She wants to go to bed. Then we’ll talk a little. I have things to say to you.”

  When his aunt had bidden him goodnight, the two men sat in silence for a few minutes before Mr. Jiang began to speak.

  “Your aunt worries too much. But none of us knows when we shall die, so it is time to give you my final commandments.” He looked at his son gravely, and Shi-Rong bowed his head. “The first is simple enough. In all your actions, Confucius must be your guide. Honor your family, the emperor, and tradition. Failure to do so will lead only to disorder.”

  “I always try to do so, Father. And I always shall.”

  “I never doubted it. But when you are older, especially if you are successful in your career, a great temptation will be placed in your path. You will be tempted to take bribes. Almost all officials do. That is how they retire with great fortunes. Lin does not take bribes. He is a great exception, and I am glad you are to work for him. But when the temptation does arise, you must not fall into it. If you are honest and successful, you will receive sufficient riches. Do you promise me this?”

  “Certainly, Father. I promise.”

  “There remains one more thing. It concerns the emperor.” His father paused. “You must always remember that the emperor of China sits at the center of the world, and he rules by the Mandate of Heaven. It is true that down thousands of years, from time to time, the ruling dynasty has changed. When it is time for a change, the gods have always sent us many signs. By the time that the last Ming emperor hanged himself in despair two centuries ago, it was clear to everyone that the Manchu dynasty from the north was the answer to our needs.”

  “Not quite everyone,” his son could not resist inserting.

  “Some residual supporters of the Ming who fled to Taiwan. Some rebels like the White Lotus bandits…” His father made a dismissive gesture. “When you serve the emperor, my son, you must always remember that you are obeying the Mandate of Heaven. And this brings me to my last command. You must promise me never to lie to the emperor.”

  “Of course not, Father. Why would I do such a thing?”

  “Because so many people do. Officials are given instructions to do this thing or that. They have to report. They wish to please the emperor, to get promoted—or at least to stay out of trouble. So they tell the emperor what he wants to hear. Something goes wrong, they fail to meet a quota…They send a false report. This is against Confucian principle, and if they are caught, the emperor may be more angry than if they had told him the truth in the first place. But they do it. All over the empire.” He sighed. “It is our besetting sin.”

  “I will not do this.”

  “Be truthful for its own sake. Then you will have a good conscience. But it will help you also. If you gain a reputation for reporting truthfully, the emperor will know he can trust you and will promote you.”

  “I promise, Father.”

  “Then that is all.”

  Shi-Rong looked at his father. No wonder the old man approved of Lin. They were both upright men, of the same mold. If the mission had filled him with secret dread at all the enemies he was likely to make, it was no use hoping for any advice from his father as to how to negotiate the dangerous bureaucratic maze. His father was with Lin all the way.

  Well, he would just have to hope for success and the emperor’s approval.

  His father was tired now. It made him look suddenly frail. Was this to be the last time he saw him alive? Shi-Rong was overcome with feelings of gratitude and affection for the old man. And also a feeling of guilt. There must be so many things he could have asked him when he had the chance.

  “We shall talk once more in the morning,” the old man promised. “I have something to show you,” he added, “before you go upon your way.”

  * * *

  —

  Shi-Rong woke early. His father was still asleep, but as he expected, his aunt was in the kitchen.

  “Now you must tell me how my father really is,” he said quietly.

  “He believes he is sick. He may be wrong. But he is preparing for death. He wants to die quietly and quickly. He eats nothing.”

  “What can I do?”

  “You can make him want to live. No one else can.”

  “But I do want him to live. I need him to live.”

  “Then you may succeed.”

  “And you? Are you all right?”

  “I shall live a long time,” his aunt said simply. The idea didn’t seem to give her much pleasure.

  When his father appeared, however, he was in excellent spirits. He took a little food with them, and then, beckoning to Shi-Rong, told him: “I have a little test for you.”

  All through his childhood, from the time when his father himself taught him his first lessons, there had always been these little tests—curiosities, abstruse sayings, ancient tunes—puzzles to tease the mind and teach Shi-Rong something unexpected. They were more like games, really. And no visit home could be complete without something of this kind.

  From a drawer Mr. Jiang took out a small bag and emptied its contents onto a table. There was a rattling sound, and Shi-Rong saw a tiny pile of shards of broken bone and turtle shell.

  “When I was in Zhengzhou last month,” he said, “I was shopping at the apothecary’s when a farmer came in with these.” He smiled. “He wanted to sell them to the apothecary. ‘Grind them up,’ he said. ‘Sell the powder for a high price. They must be magic of some kind.’ He had a farm somewhere north of the river. Said he found them in the ground, and that he had more. I expect he hoped the apothecary would sell the powder successfully and pay him handsomely for more. But the apothecary didn’t want the stuff, so I persuaded him to sell them to me.”

  “And why did you buy them, Father?”

  “Ah, that’s your puzzle. You have to tell me. Take a look at them.”

  At first Shi-Rong couldn’t see anything of interest. Just some little bones, grimy with earth. Two of the fragments of turtle shell seemed to fit together, however, and as he placed them side by side, he noticed t
hat there were tiny scratches on their surface. As he searched further among the bones, he found more marks. The scratches were quite neat.

  “The bones have some kind of writing on them. Looks a bit primitive.”

  “Can you read it?”

  “Not at all.”

  “They are Chinese characters. I am sure of it. See here…”—his father pointed—“the character for man; and here is horse, and this may be water.”

  “I think you could be right.”

  “I believe this is ancestral Chinese writing, early forms of the characters we know today.”

  “If so, they must be very old.”

  “We have examples of fully formed writing from a very early period. I’d guess these bones are four thousand years old, perhaps more.”

  Shi-Rong was suddenly struck by a beautiful thought. “Why, Father, you must get more. You must decipher them. This will make you famous.”

  His father chuckled. “You mean I’d have to live for years?”

  “Certainly. You must see me win the emperor’s favor and become famous amongst all the scholars yourself. It’s your duty to the family,” he added cleverly.

  His father looked at him fondly. The love of the young is always a little selfish. It cannot be otherwise. But he was touched by his son’s affection. “Well,” he said without much confidence, “I’ll try.”

  And now, he knew, it was time for his son to leave. He had a long way to travel. Shi-Rong would follow the river valley to Kaifeng, then take the ancient road until he came to the mighty Yangtze River, three hundred miles to the south. From there, another seven hundred miles down, by road and river to the coast. He’d be lucky to get there in fifty days.

  As they parted at the gateway to the house, Shi-Rong begged his father, “Please live till I return,” and his father ordered him: “Keep my commandments.”

  Then Mr. Jiang and his sister watched Shi-Rong until he was out of sight.

  * * *

  —

  Two hours after Shi-Rong had departed, his aunt sat down at her writing desk. Her brother, after going for a short walk, had lain down to rest, and now she returned to the matter that had been occupying her thoughts for several days before Shi-Rong’s arrival.

  On the desk in front of her, a large sheet of paper displayed a grid of hexagrams. As she had so many times before, she tried to decipher their message.

  That was the trouble with the I Ching. It seldom gave clear answers. Cryptic words, oracular expressions, mysteries to be solved. Everything lay in the hands of the interpreter. Sometimes the message seemed clear; often it did not.

  Had there been a consistency in her readings concerning Shi-Rong? It seemed to her that there had been some. There were indications of danger, but the danger was not close. There were suggestions of death, unexpected but inevitable. Death by water.

  It was all so vague.

  She had not told her brother. Or Shi-Rong. What was the point?

  * * *

  ◦

  The party for Trader was going splendidly. First of all, they’d given him a present.

  “At first we couldn’t think what to give you,” they told him. “Then somebody suggested a picture. Picture of what, though? After much discussion, it was decided that you’re such an unconscionably handsome fellow, we’d better give you a picture of yourself!”

  “Something to send your ladylove,” a voice called out.

  “We should have given you several, for all the girls,” another rejoined. “But we couldn’t afford it.”

  “So here it is,” they proudly cried.

  It was a miniature, of course. One gave portraits to be hung on walls to senior men when they retired, not to young chaps starting out in life. But they’d done him proud all the same. They’d chosen the usual oval shape. That’s what the ladies liked. Painted in oil on ivory. But painted with such striking realism and richness of tone that it might have been by the famous Andrew Robertson himself. It wasn’t, but it might have been. They all agreed that with his pale face and darkly brooding good looks, “Trader’s the Byron of the China trade.”

  “Remember that artist we had in to make sketches of us all for a group picture?” they cried. “That was the miniature painter. It was you he was sketching all the time.”

  Trader thanked them solemnly. And indeed, he was delighted with the present. Said he’d keep it all his life in memory of the good days spent in their company. And he might have said more if they hadn’t shouted, “Shut up! Shut up! It’s time for a song.”

  Young Crosbie, a small, sandy-haired Scotsman, was at the piano. He’d made up a song. Well, to be precise, he was making up a song, aided by all the other good fellows there. Garstin, Standish, Swann, Giles, Humphreys—jolly chaps from all the agencies. And Charlie Farley, too, of course.

  * * *

  —

  Ernest Read smiled and took a leisurely puff at his cigar. The American was a barrel of a man. Short-cropped hair, big brown mustache. Twenty-eight years old, but as worldly-wise as a man of forty. A good oarsman. A man’s man. A ladies’ man, too. He glanced at John Trader. “They’re giving you a pretty good send-off, Trader. When do you leave?”

  “Three days.”

  “We may meet again, then. I’m taking a trip to Macao before I make my way back home.”

  “I’m always glad of good company,” John answered. He didn’t ask the American what his own business was. Read seemed the kind of man who would give information if and when he wanted to.

  “So you’re going into the China trade,” Read continued. “How do you feel about selling opium?”

  “It’s a medicine.” Trader shrugged. “In England, people give laudanum to their children.”

  “And if people overindulge…it’s their problem, right?”

  “Same as wine and spirits. Would you prohibit them?”

  “No.” Read considered. “Though they say opium’s more addictive. Fact remains, the Chinese emperor doesn’t approve. Sale or consumption of the said article is illegal in his domain.”

  “Well, I’m not under Chinese law, thank God.” Trader shot a swift glance back at Read. “Your own countrymen sell opium.”

  “Oh yes.” Read grinned. “Russell, Cushing, Forbes, Delano—some of the best names in old Boston. But American participation in the China trade’s nothing compared to you British.” He took another draw on his cigar. “I hear you’ve entered into a partnership.”

  “Yes. A small firm. Odstock and Sons. It’s really two brothers these days. One here, one in Canton.”

  “I’ve heard of them,” said Read with a nod. “Good operators. I guess you’re fortunate you have money to invest.”

  “A small inheritance. That’s all.”

  “And you want to make a fortune in a hurry,” said Read.

  John Trader nodded thoughtfully. “Something like that,” he said quietly.

  * * *

  —

  The next day was Sunday. Charlie usually liked going to his aunt’s on Sundays. The main meal was in the early afternoon and was usually followed by a leisurely afternoon stroll to aid the digestion. Often there were guests, but it was only family today.

  “Tell me about the party last night,” said Aunt Harriet.

  “It was what you’d expect. Jokes about China. Crosbie tried to compose a song. They all teased John about how rich he was going to be.”

  “He’s not poor now, from what I understand,” said Harriet.

  “He needs more.” Charlie gave her a confidential look. “He’s in love.”

  “Really? With whom?”

  “Agnes Lomond.”

  “So tell me about Agnes Lomond. I’ve met her, but that’s all.”

  “Nothing to tell, really. I don’t know what he sees in her.”

  “When did it start?�
�

  “The day we had luncheon with her father. He was struck with a thunderbolt. A few days later I discovered he’d been to call on her mother. He never told me he was going to.”

  “Colonel Lomond likes him?”

  “Not at all. Hates him. But after he called, Mrs. Lomond decided he was charming.” He thought for a moment. “It’s difficult for the colonel, I suppose. Agnes looks well enough, but she’s nothing special. Aristocratic, of course, but she ain’t rich. So even the colonel has to be careful. Fathers don’t want to get a reputation for chasing young men away, you see. Puts people off.”

  “So is Trader paying his addresses to Miss Lomond?”

  “Hasn’t got to that yet. He’s allowed to call on her mother and meet her. Sees her at other gatherings, I daresay. But I think he wants to strengthen his hand before he goes further.”

  “So he’s going to China to make a quick fortune. And while he’s away?”

  “The colonel will be scouring the British Empire to find a young man he likes better.” He chuckled quietly. “He must have got the wind up. He even asked me if I’d be interested.”

  “I can understand that. He was friendly with your father. He likes you. Any girl would be glad to marry you. Are you interested?”

  “Not my type.”

  “And do we know what Miss Lomond herself thinks of all this?”

  “Not the least idea.” Charlie grinned.

  March 1839

  China seas. A warm night. A light breeze. Oily slicks of cloud lay along the horizon, and above them, a silver quarter-moon hung among the stars.

  The China seas could be treacherous—terrible during the monsoons. But tonight the black water parted, smooth as lacquer, under the clipper’s bow.

  The cargo, stowed below in five hundred mango-wood chests—a hundred of them Trader’s, a large part of his wealth—was also black.

  Opium.

  * * *

  —

  John Trader stared from the deck across the water, his face still as a gambler’s. He’d made his choices. There was no turning back now.