China

by Edward Rutherfurd

  “So much,” Trader remarked wryly, “for Chinese morality.”

  “It is you, Mr. Trader,” the missionary gently reminded him, “not he, who is in the drug trade.”

  * * *

  —

  They reached their rendezvous—a small island with a sheltered anchorage—that evening. The receiving ship, flying a pair of red flags, was already there. Half of McBride’s original cargo had been presold, paid for with silver at Canton, and the letters of credit were duly passed across. But when the Chinese merchant discovered that they had another hundred, plus Trader’s remaining fifty, he paid cash for those as well.

  By nightfall, the business of the voyage was therefore complete. Both the ships had dropped anchor and would go their separate ways at dawn. In the meantime, the Chinese merchant gladly agreed to dine with his new Western friends.

  It was a pleasant meal. Simple food, some drinkable wine. A little Madeira supplied by Van Buskirk. Mostly the missionary and the Chinese merchant spoke together in Cantonese, while the others conversed in English. The surprise came at the end of the meal.

  “Gentlemen,” the missionary announced, “you have no need of me now. But our Chinese friend has agreed to take me farther up the coast before he returns here to meet another British opium ship, on which I can make my return. During my days with him, I may even be able to go ashore.”

  McBride frowned. “That’s a dangerous thing you’re doing, sir. Missionaries normally stick with our ships. You’ll have no protection if you get caught. Especially onshore.”

  “I know, Captain.” The big Dutchman gave him a smile that was almost apologetic. “But I am a missionary.” He shrugged. “I shall hope for protection from…” He pointed up to Heaven.

  They received this with silence.

  “Godspeed, Reverend,” said Read after a pause. “We shall miss you.”

  “I shall go across to the other vessel with my things tonight,” Van Buskirk concluded, “so as not to delay you in the morning.”

  * * *

  —

  A quarter of an hour later, a leather satchel containing his few possessions over his shoulder and his two big wicker baskets already lowered over the side, Van Buskirk was ready to depart. But before he left, he beckoned to Trader to join him and led him over to the opposite rail, where they would not be heard.

  “Mr. Trader,” the big man spoke in a low, soft voice, “would you allow me to give you some advice?”

  “Of course.”

  “I have been out here many years. You are young, and you are not a bad man. I can see that. But I beg you to leave off this business. Return to your own country, or at least to India, where you may make an honest living. For if you continue in the opium trade, Mr. Trader, you will be in danger of losing your immortal soul.”

  John did not reply.

  “And there is something else you should know,” the older man continued. “When I was speaking to the mandarin this afternoon, he gave me news which confirmed other rumors I have been hearing.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “There is trouble ahead. Big trouble.” He nodded slowly. “If you enter the opium trade now, I believe you may be ruined. So my advice to you as a man of business—even if you care nothing for your soul—is this: Take the money you have made and run.”

  “Run?”

  “Run for your life.”

  * * *

  ◦

  The following morning, a new thing happened to Mei-Ling. She’d been told to hang out the washing in the yard, and she was already halfway through. Second Son was watching her affectionately. He’d just acquired a new dog, and he was playing with the puppy while he sat on a bench under the orange tree in the middle of the yard.

  The sun was shining. Behind the wall on the right, some bamboo fronds were swaying in the breeze. Over the tiled roof on the left, one could see the terraced rice fields on the hill. From the kitchen came the pleasant smell of flatbread, cooking over a wood fire.

  But now Second Son saw his wife stagger, as if she was going to faint. He rose anxiously.

  Mei-Ling herself hardly knew what had happened. The feeling of nausea was so sudden. Sending a chicken scuttling away, she staggered to the orange tree and put her hand on a branch to steady herself.

  At this moment, her mother-in-law chose to come into the yard. “Bad girl!” she cried. “Why have you stopped?”

  But there was nothing Mei-Ling could do. Before her husband could even support her, she doubled over and retched. The older woman came close, looking at her carefully.

  And then, to Mei-Ling’s surprise, Mother spoke gently.

  “Come.” The older woman pushed her son away and took Mei-Ling’s arm. “Quick, quick.” She helped Mei-Ling towards her room. “You sit down. Cool place.”

  She heard her husband ask what was happening, and his mother tell him sharply to go to work. She sat down on a wooden chair, wondering if she was going to throw up, while her mother-in-law went into the kitchen, returning a few moments later with a cup of ginger tea.

  “Drink a little now. Eat later.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mei-Ling said. “I don’t know what happened.”

  “You don’t know?” The older woman was surprised. “It’s morning sickness. Willow is lucky. She doesn’t seem to get it. I always did. Nothing wrong.” She smiled encouragingly. “You will have a fine son.”

  The next day, Mei-Ling felt sick again. And the day after that. When she asked her mother-in-law how long she thought it would go on, the older woman was noncommittal. “Maybe not long,” she said.

  In the meantime, however, Mei-Ling was enjoying what seemed to be a change in their relationship. This proof of the vigorous life stirring within her daughter-in-law and memories of her own suffering with morning sickness made her more kind. She would insist that Mei-Ling rest whenever she felt queasy and often sit and chat with her, in a way that she never had before. Naturally, the discussion often turned to the child she was going to have.

  “He will be born in the Year of the Pig,” her mother-in-law pointed out. “And the element for this year is Earth. Earth Pig is not a bad year to be born.”

  By the time she was three, Mei-Ling could recite the sequence of animals after whom each Chinese year would be named in turn—Dragon, Snake, Horse, Goat…twelve in all, so that an animal came around every dozen years. But that was not all. One had to add, for each animal, one of five elements attached to it: Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, and Water. So the twelve animals, each with its attached element, made a complete cycle of sixty years.

  And as every child knew, one’s character went with one’s birth sign. Some were good, some not so good.

  Fire Horse was bad. Fire Horse men brought trouble on their families. Big trouble, sometimes. And if you were a girl born in a Fire Horse year, nobody would marry you. Parents tried not to have a child at all in a Fire Horse year.

  Mei-Ling had a general idea of this complex knowledge, but her mother-in-law was an expert.

  “The Earth sign can strengthen the Pig,” the older woman explained. “People say Pig means fat and lazy, but not always. Earth Pig will work hard. Take good care of his wife.”

  “Won’t he eat a lot?” asked Mei-Ling.

  “Yes, but he won’t care what he eats.” The older woman laughed. “Easy for his wife. She won’t have to cook so well. If she makes a mistake, he’ll forgive her. And people will like him. Trust him.”

  “They say that Earth Pig people aren’t very bright,” Mei-Ling said a little sadly.

  “No need for that here,” Mother pointed out. “There is another thing about people born in an Earth Pig year,” she continued. “They are afraid of people laughing at them because they are simple and trusting. You must always encourage him. Make him feel happy. Then he will work well.”

  The next day, Mei-Ling dared to ask: “What i
f it’s a girl, Mother? What will a girl be like?”

  The older woman, however, wasn’t interested in the idea. “Don’t worry. I went to a fortune-teller. First you will have sons. Daughter later.”

  Mei-Ling hardly knew whether she was glad or sorry for this news. But as she looked at her sister-in-law, who was growing big now, it occurred to her that if Willow, as expected, had a boy and she herself had a girl, this friendliness Mother was showing her now might suddenly end.

  * * *

  —

  She was surprised one afternoon to receive a visit. Her father never approached the Lung house normally, but when the servant girl came to say that he was outside and would like a word with his daughter, Mother gave Mei-Ling permission to go out to him and even added, “Ask your father to come in, if he wishes.”

  He was waiting by the little wooden bridge. He looked sheepish. And he was accompanied by a young man Mei-Ling had never seen before.

  “This is a friend of Nio,” her father said. “He has a message from him. But he would not give it to me. Only you.” He backed away.

  Mei-Ling looked at the young man. He was maybe twenty-five, slim, handsome. He smiled. But there was something about him she did not like.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “They call me Sea Dragon,” he replied. “I know your Little Brother. And as I was traveling this way, he gave me a message for you. He wants you to know that he is well.”

  “Is he in the big city? In Guangzhou?”

  “Near it.”

  “What is he doing?”

  “He is well paid. One day maybe he will be rich.” The young man smiled again. “He says he does not want you to call him Little Brother anymore. You should call him Cousin from Guangzhou now.”

  Her heart sank. Was her Little Brother telling her he’d become another person? Had he joined a criminal gang?

  “Is he armed?” she asked nervously.

  “Don’t worry. He has a dagger and a cutlass.” He’d misunderstood. “He is very good with the knife.” He laughed.

  “Does he work by land or by sea?”

  “By sea.”

  Her father came forward again.

  “We should go,” he said. And Mei-Ling nodded. She knew all she needed to. Nio was a smuggler or a pirate. It was all the same. She had a terrible feeling that soon he would be dead.

  * * *

  ◦

  Run for your life. John told himself to forget the missionary’s warning. Pointless to think about it. He just needed to get to Canton and meet Tully Odstock. He’d know what was going on and what to do.

  God knows, he thought, if I can’t trust the Odstock brothers better than a Dutch missionary I hardly know, then I shouldn’t be in business with them.

  If only the Dutchman’s words would stop echoing in his mind.

  They reached the gulf that was the entrance to the Pearl River system that afternoon.

  “See those peaks?” McBride pointed to a distant rocky coastline just visible on the horizon. “The nearest is Hong Kong island. Nothing there, except a few fishermen. But it’s got a fine anchorage. Good place to shelter in a storm.”

  Read joined Trader and they gazed towards the rock of Hong Kong for a while.

  “They say Odstocks do well,” the American remarked. “Did you ever meet the old father?”

  “No. He retired to England.”

  “They tell me he left quite a reputation.” He grinned. “The devil incarnate, people called him. Sharp as a needle.”

  Trader frowned. Was the American giving him a gentle warning about Odstocks? He wasn’t sure. “I’ve known Benjamin quite a while,” he said. “He’s a good man.”

  “And the brother in Canton?”

  “Tully Odstock? I haven’t met him yet.”

  Read looked surprised. “I’d want to know a man pretty well,” he said quietly, “before I became his partner.”

  “You think I rushed into this business?”

  “Most men in love think destiny must be on their side.” The American nodded sadly. “I’ve been there myself.”

  “I suppose I go with my gut,” said John. “If a thing feels right…” He shrugged. “It’s like being pulled by the current, down the river of life.”

  “Maybe.” Read considered. “In my experience, Trader, life’s more like the ocean. Unpredictable. Waves coming from all sides. Chance.”

  “Well, I think I’m on the right road,” said John.

  It was midafternoon when they passed Hong Kong. For several more hours the ship made its way between the small, friendly-looking islands scattered across the entrance of the gulf until, just as evening was beginning, they came in sight of Macao.

  Macao island was a very different sort of place. Inhabited by the Portuguese for centuries, it had a shallow bay and steep slopes sprinkled with houses, villas, churches, and tiny forts that looked charming in the evening sun.

  They dropped anchor in Macao Roads. A jolly boat came out, and Read got into it to go ashore. “Maybe we’ll meet again,” he said as he and Trader shook hands. “If not, good luck.”

  * * *

  —

  The journey from Macao to Canton started the following dawn and took nearly three slow days. McBride didn’t talk much.

  The first day they made their way up the gulf. Around noon, Trader saw some sails on the horizon.

  “Lintin rock,” McBride grunted. “Where the opium cutters unload. Out of the Chinese governor’s sight.”

  During the afternoon, as the gulf began to narrow, Trader could see, away on his left, a distant shoreline of endless mudflats, with the mountains rising behind them. Was it just his imagination, or were they staring down at him ominously?

  The second day, they saw a group of headlands ahead. “The Bogue,” McBride said tersely. “Entrance to China.”

  As they reached the Bogue, the schooner hove to beside a junk moored some distance from the shore, from which a young Chinese official quickly boarded them, collected fees from McBride, and waved them on.

  The entrance to China was certainly well guarded. They passed between two huge forts, one on either side of the river, with packed mud walls, thirty feet thick, and impressive arrays of cannon trained upon the water. Any unwelcome ship in the channel would surely be blown to bits. A short while later they came to another pair of fearsome forts. Mighty empire, John thought, mighty defenses.

  The channel became narrower. The men took soundings over the side. “Sandbanks,” McBride grunted. “Got to be careful.”

  As they proceeded, Trader saw rice fields, villages of wooden huts, more fields of grain, and now and then an orchard or a temple with a curving hip roof. Small junks with triangular sails on bamboo frameworks skimmed like winged insects on the shallow waters.

  So this was China. Fearsome. Picturesque. Mysterious. Sampans came close enough that he could look down at their occupants—pigtailed Chinese, all of them—and they gazed back at him impassively. He smiled at them, even waved, but they did not respond. What were they thinking? He had no idea.

  It was the third morning when they came around a bend in the river and he saw a forest of masts ahead.

  “Whampoa,” said McBride. “I’ll be leaving you here.”

  “I thought you were taking me to Canton.”

  “Ships unload here. You take a chop boat up to Canton. It’ll get you there before dark.”

  And after the schooner had weaved through the huge network of islands, wharves, and anchorages, Trader found himself, his strongbox, and his trunks swiftly unloaded into one of the lighters going upstream. With only a handshake and a bleak “You’re on your own now, Mr. Trader,” McBride departed.

  * * *

  —

  He had to wait two hours before the lighter set off. The final miles up the Pearl Riv
er were tedious. Since he couldn’t communicate with the half-dozen Chinese manning the chop boat, John was left alone with his thoughts.

  Like most of the traffic, the lighter was going to collect the tea crop season’s final pickings—black tea of the lowest quality—before Canton’s trade wound down for the summer months. Perhaps it was his imagination, but there seemed to be an end-of-season lassitude amongst the crew.

  During the afternoon, the sky became overcast. The clouds were growing darker. He had begun to wonder whether they would reach Canton before dusk and had just concluded that they probably wouldn’t when, as they emerged from another bend, he saw a long, untidy settlement of houseboats up ahead. It looked like a floating shantytown. At the end of the houseboats, a little apart, they passed a big painted vessel, three decks high and moored beside the bank. Servants were lighting lanterns around its decks, and by their lights he saw the painted faces of girls looking over the side.

  This must be a Chinese flower boat, the floating brothels he’d heard about. The crew came to life now, grinning at him, pointing the girls out to him, and indicating that they could draw alongside. The girls waved encouragingly, but with a politely regretful smile, Trader shook his head.

  And a few minutes later, passing a great gaggle of junks moored in the stream, he caught sight of his destination.

  The pictures and prints he’d seen had been accurate. There could be no mistaking the splendid port that the foreigners called Canton.

  He’d been told that Portuguese merchants had given the place its Western name. Hearing the Chinese refer to the local province as Guangdong, they’d supposed that this meant the city. And soon Guangdong had become Canton. By the time the outside world learned that the city was actually called Guangzhou—which sounded roughly like Gwung-Jo—the name Canton was too well entrenched for foreigners to worry about it.

  Come to that, most Western travelers referred to Beijing as Peking, and English speakers said Moscow instead of Moskva and, for some obscure reason, Munich instead of München. A few British diehards even called the French city of Lyon by the splendidly British-sounding name of Lions.