China

by Edward Rutherfurd

  After a brief walk up the bustling street, they turned right into Hog Lane. Tully pointed to a doorway. “That’s our hospital, in case you get sick. There’s an excellent doctor, an American missionary called Parker. Nice fella.” He nodded. “Well, that’s given you the lie of the land. Time for lunch, I’d say.”

  * * *

  —

  The English factory had been built in the eighteenth century by the East India Company. At the front on the upper floor, its spacious dining room, flanked by a library on one side and a billiard room on the other, looked out over an English walled garden that extended almost to the waterfront. Oil paintings on the walls, handsome chairs, and a platoon of well-trained waiters combined to reproduce all the solid comfort and stability of a London club.

  Not all the English merchants resided at the English factory, large though it was. A number lodged in other factories with extra space. But the handsome English factory was their clubhouse, and over a dozen men had gathered there for lunch that day. Jardine himself, the greatest opium trader of them all, had sailed for England not long ago, and so his partner Matheson presided. Several of the men were smaller merchants, one of whom in particular, a fellow named Dent, looked distinctly like a pirate to Trader. By contrast, one of Jardine’s nephews had brought along the eminently respectable Dr. Parker.

  Missionary or buccaneer, they all seemed genial and ready to give good advice. Matheson indicated Trader should sit next to him. Encased between well-tamed whiskers, like a pair of bookends, Matheson’s face had a pleasant, rather intellectual look, more like a bookseller, Trader thought, than a ruthless opium merchant.

  “The secret to life here, Trader,” he said cordially, “is to have a first-rate comprador. He’s the man who deals with the locals, finds you good Chinese servants, food supplies, anything you want. We’ve got an excellent man.”

  “The servants are all local?”

  “Pretty much. They don’t give any trouble. The Cantonese are practical people.”

  “Should I learn to speak Chinese?” John asked.

  “I’d advise not,” his host replied. “The authorities don’t like it. They don’t want us getting too close to their people. As I’m sure you know, everyone here speaks pidgin English. The Hong merchants, the servants, the people on the waterfront—they all understand pidgin English. You’ll pick it up in no time.” He turned towards the American. “Dr. Parker speaks Chinese, of course, but that’s different.”

  The American was a short, bespectacled, clean-shaven man. Looked about thirty.

  “You see,” the missionary explained with a smile, “the local people, including the mandarins, come to me for treatment. So they like to be sure we understand each other before I start cutting pieces out of them!”

  “I always heard the Chinese were proud of their own medicine,” Trader said.

  “Yes. Their acupuncture and herbal cures often work. But when it’s a question of surgery, we’re far ahead, and they know it. So they come to us.”

  “They’re nothing but quacks,” said Tully firmly.

  “We shouldn’t be too proud,” Parker said sensibly. “Don’t forget, sir, it’s not so long since surgery in London was performed by barbers.”

  Remembering Van Buskirk handing out tracts to the Chinese smugglers, Trader asked Parker if he was able to make any converts in Canton.

  “Not yet,” Parker replied. “But I hope, one day, to earn enough respect as a doctor for them to respect my faith as well. I have to be patient, that’s all.”

  “Test of faith, eh?” said Tully Odstock.

  “You could say that,” Parker replied quietly. Then he gave Trader a kind look. “Mr. Odstock tells me that you have a degree from Oxford University. That’s impressive.”

  “Ah,” said John Trader. And just for a moment he hesitated.

  He knew—he’d taken the trouble to find out—that both Matheson and Jardine had Edinburgh degrees. That of Jardine was in medicine. But for a merchant or a city man to have a university degree was unusual. In the army and navy, it was unheard of. Men with intellectual interests were regarded with suspicion.

  There was, however, one way a man could go to Oxford and still show the outside world he was a decent fellow. And that was to take a pass degree.

  Clever, studious men took honors degrees. Decent fellows with no intellectual pretensions could opt for a far less rigorous examination, enjoy themselves, and take a humble pass degree, which really signified that they’d been at the place, they could read and write, and they’d learned to drink like a gentleman. John knew one man who swore he’d passed three years at Oxford without ever reading a book.

  “My guardian wanted me to go to Oxford,” said John. “I learned a bit, I suppose, but I only took a pass degree, you know.”

  In fact, it wasn’t true. He’d taken honors. But he’d thought it wiser to tell people in Calcutta that he’d only taken a pass degree, and he was sticking to his story.

  During the meal, the threat from the commissioner was further discussed. Tully told them what Delano had said, which was well received. Everyone agreed that they’d play a waiting game. Dent thumped the table and said that if the commissioner gave any trouble they should all grab the damn fellow and toss him into the river. As the just-arrived new boy, Trader listened without offering any opinions.

  But as he silently watched this handful of merchants facing the possibility of massive loss, this small collection of undefended men sitting on a tiny strip of land, while all around them lay a vast empire of millions who could overwhelm them in a minute if they chose, he couldn’t help admiring them. They might be arrogant; they certainly didn’t occupy any moral high ground; but for all that, as they sat coolly in their club, he found them reassuringly British.

  When the dessert was served, however, he did venture to ask a question. “There is something I don’t understand,” he confessed to Matheson. “In India, we have the East India Company army to protect our trade. We haven’t any military force here in China, though there is a British government representative called the superintendent. So my question is, if British trade is at risk and the livelihood of British merchants threatened, what’s the superintendent going to do about it?”

  “Elliot!” cried Tully Odstock, and snorted. “Nothing! Useless fella. Won’t do a thing.” And there were murmurs of approval at this outburst.

  “Captain Elliot,” replied Matheson calmly, “as you see, is not very popular. He went to Macao the other day, and no doubt he’ll return here soon.”

  “Why is he disliked?” asked Trader.

  “Partly, I think, because he’s an aristocrat,” answered Matheson. “Two of his cousins are lords—one is governor general of India, the other’s in the cabinet. At least one of his family’s an admiral. We merchants don’t feel he likes us much. And he certainly doesn’t like the opium trade. Disapproves of it, in fact, and therefore disapproves of us.”

  “Why doesn’t the damn fella go and work for the emperor of China, then?” Tully interrupted.

  “Elliot’s obliged to safeguard our interests, of course,” Matheson continued, “because the tea we import from China is highly valuable to the British government. So is the cotton we sell to China—though despite the eagerness of our mill owners in England, I can assure you that the Chinese market will never absorb enough cotton to pay for all the tea we need to buy.”

  “All well and good, Matheson,” said Tully Odstock. “But if things get rough—and they could—I want a fellow I can trust watching my back. Not a man who’s practically on the Chinese side. As for his morals, once a man gets on a moral high horse, you never know what he’s going to do. We could lose everything.”

  “We must keep cool,” said Matheson.

  “I am cool,” said Tully hotly.

  “But you are wrong about Elliot if you think he’s sympathetic to China,
” Matheson continued. “In fact, I would argue the exact reverse.”

  “Damned if I see why.”

  “I’ve observed Elliot carefully. He’s an aristocrat, an imperialist, perhaps a diplomatist. Now consider the case of China. A proud empire that sees itself as above all others. If we send an embassy to China, the imperial court sees us as a subject people who have come to pay tribute. They expect the ambassador to kowtow, flat on his face, before the emperor. Merchants like us may not care two hoots about this, so long as we can trade. But to Elliot, it is intolerable, an insult to the British Crown and to his dignity. He’s concerned with status.”

  “No trade, no money. No money, no status,” said Tully crossly.

  “I agree. But even on the subject of trade, Elliot cannot be a friend of China. And why is that? Because China will not allow us to trade with her as we do with other nations. In all this huge empire, we are allowed to trade only at Canton, and we can’t even reside in the city. But if we had free access to the cities of China, to offer them our goods—who knows?—we might not even need to trade in opium. Or so Elliot might argue. In short, he hates the status quo. And until the celestial throne recognizes the British Empire as an equal and joins the normal trade and intercourse of nations, Elliot will be implacably opposed to it.”

  “You know how to talk,” said Odstock grudgingly. He turned to Trader. “You’re an Oxford man. I hope you can give Matheson a run for his money in the talking department.”

  But before Trader could respond to this embarrassing proposition, the conversation was interrupted by a servant quickly entering the dining room and announcing:

  “Mr. Zhou asks Mr. Odstock to please come to his house. Bring Mr. Trader also. Very urgent.”

  Odstock looked at them all in surprise. “The devil he does.” He turned to Trader. “Zhou’s a member of the Hong. He’s the Chinese merchant I deal with, mostly.” He turned back to the servant. “Why?”

  “Commissioner Lin’s orders.”

  “Me?” said John in horror. And the man nodded.

  “How very strange,” exclaimed Matheson. Even he looked slightly alarmed. “Well,” he said after a pause, “I suppose you’d better go.”

  * * *

  —

  As Trader walked up Hog Lane with Mr. Zhou’s servant and Tully Odstock, his partner tried to sound completely calm.

  “I call him Joker,” he explained. “His name sounds like Joe, you see. He doesn’t mind.”

  They were halfway down Hog Lane when Tully stopped at a stall and bought a couple of almond cookies. Giving one of them to Trader, he slowly began to eat his without moving.

  “Mr. Zhou says come quick,” that gentleman’s servant cried anxiously, but Tully ignored him.

  “Never hurry. Never look anxious,” he murmured to Trader, who took the hint and crunched through his almond cookie before taking another step. “By the way,” Tully continued, “when we get there, we’ll talk, and after a while they’ll bring tea. Once you’ve drunk your tea, you’re expected to leave. That’s the form here.”

  “Anything else I should know?” John asked.

  “At the moment, Joker owes us quite a bit of money. But don’t worry. Joker’s all right. Known him for years. He’ll pay.” He nodded. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t seen him for nearly a week. Wonder what he thinks about this Lin nonsense.”

  It took only five minutes to reach Mr. Zhou’s house. It was impressive, with a courtyard, verandas, and a handsome garden behind. He received them in a well-furnished room hung with red lanterns.

  “Afternoon, Joker,” said Tully. “Long time no see.”

  “Six days,” the Hong merchant answered.

  As John Trader gazed at Mr. Zhou, it seemed to him that his partner’s nickname for the Chinese merchant was very badly chosen. He received them sitting in the most dignified manner, in a chair like a throne. The high polished dome of his head surmounted a long, almost skeletonic face. Over a richly embroidered tunic, he wore a wide-sleeved black silk gown. Around his neck, a long double row of amber beads hung to his waist. He looked to John more like an emperor than a court jester.

  “This is Mr. Trader,” said Tully. “Studied at Oxford.”

  Mr. Zhou inclined his head and smiled.

  “How do you do, Mr. Zhou,” said John politely.

  “You can speak Chinese?” Zhou asked.

  “Not yet.”

  The Chinese merchant did not look impressed.

  “Joker,” asked Tully, “what’s Commissioner Lin want?”

  “He wants all the opium,” the Hong merchant answered.

  “Why does he want so much?”

  “He must get it all or lose face.”

  “No can do,” said Tully firmly. He looked at Joker carefully. There was something in the Hong merchant’s eyes: a look of real fear. “Joker’s in a funk,” Tully murmured to Trader. He turned back to the Hong merchant. “Why does Lin ask for Trader?”

  But before Joker could answer, there was a sound of voices, and a moment later a servant ushered two men into the room.

  * * *

  ◦

  Jiang Shi-Rong looked at the three men. He already knew Zhou. It was obvious who Odstock was. So the dark-haired young man must be the scholar.

  He’d wondered how he might converse with Trader. He didn’t want to communicate through Zhou, whom he didn’t trust in any case. So he’d brought his own interpreter.

  To be precise, the man in question had arrived with Commissioner Lin. He was a curious fellow, small, thin, and of indeterminate age. He said he was forty; he might have been fifty. He wore scratched round spectacles with very thick lenses, though Shi-Rong could not detect any sign of magnification in them. And he claimed to speak and write English to an equally advanced degree, having learned it first in the household of a missionary in Macao, before improving his knowledge still further during a sojourn in Singapore. As a result of this last part of his story, he was known to everyone by a nickname: Mr. Singapore.

  As soon as Mr. Zhou had performed the introductions, he observed to Shi-Rong that Odstock had just been asking what the commissioner wished to accomplish in Guangzhou.

  Shi-Rong bowed politely and turned to Mr. Singapore. “Tell the barbarian merchant that Commissioner Lin is here to abolish the opium trade forever.” He watched as Mr. Singapore, without too much difficulty, conveyed this unequivocal message. He noticed that Odstock looked both cynical and outraged, but that young Trader appeared rather downcast. “The criminals who engage in this illegal trade will be firmly dealt with,” he continued. “Some, including Mr. Zhou, may be executed.”

  Mr. Zhou looked very unhappy.

  Odstock spoke, and Mr. Singapore said, “The fat barbarian asks if the Celestial Kingdom wants to sell tea.”

  “The Celestial Kingdom has no need to sell anything,” said Shi-Rong, “but the goods it does sell are healthful, such as tea and the rhubarb herb, without which you will die.” He saw the two barbarians look surprised. Obviously they had not realized that he knew that their very lives depended on their getting the rhubarb. “We will allow barbarian merchants to buy these things for silver,” Shi-Rong concluded firmly. “That is all.”

  Odstock and Zhou were silent. Shi-Rong turned his attention to Trader. “Ask him, if he is a scholar, why has he become a pirate,” he told Mr. Singapore.

  “He says he is not a pirate. He is a merchant.”

  “Well then, if he is a scholar, why is he a merchant, the lowest form of humanity?”

  “He says the merchant is not the lowest form of humanity. Not in his country.”

  It seemed to Shi-Rong that this young barbarian had replied hotly to his question, even defiantly, as if his own country were the equal of the Celestial Kingdom. And this when he and his fellow Fan Kuei were busy poisoning people for profit.

&n
bsp; “We consider,” Shi-Rong said firmly, “that to be a peasant, honestly working the land, is a moral occupation. The merchant who takes the work of others and sells it for gain is clearly a person of a lower moral order, and he deserves to be despised. Tell him this.”

  Mr. Singapore seemed to struggle a bit translating this, but he managed to do so. Trader said nothing.

  Shi-Rong returned to the attack. “In any case, his claim not to be a pirate is false. If he is honest, why is he breaking the law and selling opium to smugglers?”

  “He says he is not under Chinese law.”

  “He should respect the laws of the Celestial Kingdom, both because he is here and because those laws are benevolent, just, and wise.”

  While Mr. Singapore tried to convey these ideas, Shi-Rong considered. It seemed to him that Trader’s answers did not really add up. “Is he truly a scholar?” he asked skeptically.

  “He says he attended the University of Oxford.”

  “I do not know what that is. Ask him where his country is and how big it is.”

  “He says it is an island far, far to the west, but that it possesses an empire bigger than the Celestial Kingdom.”

  Shi-Rong felt a sense of disappointment. Obviously this young man was not only arrogant, but a liar. Perhaps it was a waste of time talking to him. He kept his face impassive, however, and pressed on. “Is it true that his kingdom is ruled by women?”

  “He says nearly always by kings, but recently his country has a young queen.”

  “And does his queen have good morals, or is she a wicked person?”

  “He says she is named Queen Victoria and that she has the highest morals.”

  “Then why does she permit her merchants to sell opium?”

  “His queen does not think opium is bad. She takes it herself. Opium is healthful—only bad if taken to excess.”

  “But that is the point,” cried Shi-Rong. “It is taken to excess. People smoke a little. Then they want more. Soon they are unable to stop. They spend all their money. They cannot work. They become like sick shadows. In the end they die. Millions of people in the Celestial Kingdom are being destroyed by this poison. How can he say it is healthful?”