“He says that each man is responsible for his actions.”
“A good ruler should protect his people. He has the same responsibility as a father to his son. Does he know anything of Confucius?”
“He has heard of Confucius.”
The barbarian was not completely ignorant, then.
“Then he will know that all men owe obedience: A son should obey his father; his father should obey the emperor. If the emperor rules wisely and justly, then this flows down through all his people. It is when the chains of proper conduct are broken that evil and chaos ensue. There are millions of people in the Celestial Kingdom. But they are all held together by obedience and right conduct, in service to the emperor, whose justice comes from the Mandate of Heaven. Therefore it is not for you or any barbarian ruler to judge what is right or wrong, but the emperor. Nothing else needs to be said.”
Shi-Rong noticed that Mr. Singapore struggled for quite a time in conveying this to Trader. But he was patient. Until this barbarian, whether he was a scholar or not, understood the basic facts of morality, there could be no basis for conversation between them.
“He says that his queen is also anointed by Heaven,” declared Mr. Singapore at last.
“In that case,” said Shi-Rong triumphantly, “I will show him the letter.” And he drew out a document and handed it to Trader. “You may explain to him that this is a draft, that you have translated into his own tongue, of the letter that Commissioner Lin is going to send to his queen.” And he watched with satisfaction as Trader took the letter and began to read.
It was a good letter. A true mandarin composition. It was reasonable. It was polite.
It pointed out that trade had carried on between their countries for centuries with peace and harmony. But recently, the trade in opium had become huge and destructive. It respectfully suggested that the Way of Heaven was the same for all countries, and that the commissioner was sure Queen Victoria would feel exactly the same about the importation of a poisonous drug into her kingdom as did the emperor. He knew that the opium came only from certain lands under her rule, and that it could not have been sold under her direction. Lin explained that the trade must cease, and asked her to forbid her merchants to continue in it. Lin ended with a veiled warning that neither the emperor nor Heaven itself would look well upon her rule if she failed in this moral duty, but that many blessings would doubtless be granted if she did as the emperor wished.
Indeed, there was nothing wrong with the letter at all, except for Mr. Singapore’s abominable translation, which was causing Trader to frown as he tried to make sense of it.
After a while, Trader handed it back.
“As a scholar, you will appreciate it,” said Shi-Rong.
“He says it is interesting,” Mr. Singapore reported.
“I hope your queen will stop the trade at once,” continued Shi-Rong.
“I cannot speak for Her Majesty, who will make her own decision,” Trader replied carefully.
Tea was brought in. The conversation was fitful and strained. Shi-Rong had delivered the messages that Lin wanted, and since Trader did not seem to be much of a scholar, nothing very useful could be learned from him.
Yet as he watched the dark-haired young man’s face, Shi-Rong thought he detected something a little sad in it. Could there be some decency in him? He had no desire to invite intimacy with this barbarian stranger, yet he was curious. And so, rather to his own surprise, he found himself saying: “My father is a good man. And each day I think of how he would wish me to behave and try to do so. Would your father wish you to engage in the opium trade?”
As Mr. Singapore translated, he saw Trader bow his head, as if deep in thought, before he quietly replied: “You are fortunate. I lost both my parents when I was very young. I was brought up by an elderly relation. He was my guardian.”
“Was he a good man?”
“He is not sure,” Mr. Singapore translated. “He does not know.”
“I think,” said Shi-Rong gently, “that you know you should not sell opium, and that it troubles you.”
John Trader did not reply. And as the ceremony of tea was over, it was time for them to depart.
* * *
—
“It’s all humbug, you know,” Tully Odstock remarked to Trader that evening. They were sitting in the walled garden in front of the English factory. “You’ll see what happens tomorrow, when the real negotiation begins.”
“I’m not so sure,” answered Trader. “I think Lin means business.”
“He’ll collapse tomorrow,” said Odstock. “As for that stupid letter to the queen…”
“It may have been all right in Chinese,” Trader remarked. “I did manage to get the sense of it in the end. But the English was so garbled it was almost gibberish. Mr. Singapore’s a complete fraud.”
“There you are,” said Tully. He gave Trader a shrewd look. “And when that young mandarin started his damn nonsense about you being troubled…Bloody cheek, I thought.”
“Quite,” said John.
“They’re all heathens, of course, at the end of the day.” Tully took out a cigar, cut and slowly lit it, drew upon it, leaned back, looked up towards the evening sky, and exhaled a mouthful of smoke towards the hesitant early stars. “You know what I’m going to do in a couple of years when I retire, back to England? Get married.” He nodded his head and took another draw on his cigar. “Find a nice wife. Go to church, I daresay. That sort of thing.”
“Anything else?” Trader asked idly.
“I’m going to found an orphanage. Always wanted to do that.”
“That sounds very worthy.”
“A man with money can do a lot of good, you know,” said Tully. He exhaled again. “Of course,” he added wisely, “you’ve got to have the money first.”
“Absolutely.”
“Think I’ll turn in. You?”
“Not tired yet.”
“Goodnight, then.” Tully arose, cigar in hand. “You’ll see I’m right, in the morning.”
* * *
—
John sat in the walled garden. The sky grew darker, the stars more bright. After a while he got up and paced about, but feeling the need for more space, he left the garden and went out onto the great open quayside.
The quay was empty, although there were lanterns in many of the junks out in the stream. He wandered down past the American factory to the end of the quay and sat on an iron mooring post, staring out across the darkened water. And as he sat there and reflected upon the events of the day that had just passed, the truth about the opium came to him, with a terrible, cold clarity.
They’d all been here too long, these merchants. They couldn’t believe that things would not continue as they had before. So of course they assumed Lin must be bluffing.
But they were wrong. The more Trader thought about the young mandarin he had just met, the more certain he felt that Jiang Shi-Rong and his master Lin and the emperor himself were indeed all in deadly earnest. It was a moral issue. They had the Mandate of Heaven on their side and hundreds of thousands of troops to call upon. They would end the opium trade, without a doubt.
And God knows, he suddenly thought, if Lin’s letter were rendered into decent English and it reached the monarch, it could be that Queen Victoria would agree with him. Elliot, her own representative here, already did.
He’d sunk his money into opium and now—he was sure—he was going to lose it all.
Why had he done it? For love? For ambition? It didn’t matter anymore. It was too late. He put his head in his hands and rocked from side to side.
“They’re deluding themselves. Odstock, the lot of them. It’s all over,” he murmured. “What have I done? Oh my God. What have I done?”
* * *
◦
Shi-Rong had been glad he could tell
the commissioner that he had watched Trader read the letter and that the barbarian scholar had been impressed.
“At moments he looked thunderstruck,” he reported.
“Let us hope it does some good,” said Lin.
But it didn’t. Some forty of the foreign merchants met the following morning. In no time at all, they sent word that they wouldn’t surrender any opium at the moment, and that they needed almost a week to think about it.
It was the first time Shi-Rong had seen the commissioner angry. “Tell them I demand a surrender of opium at once,” he ordered Shi-Rong. “Take Mr. Singapore with you. Make sure they understand that if they do not obey, the consequences will be serious. Go now!”
Having delivered his message at the factories, Shi-Rong had to wait hours before he could return with a reply. “They offer a thousand chests, Excellency. No more.”
The commissioner’s face turned to stone. Shi-Rong wondered if he would start executing them. Lin read his thoughts.
“It would be easy to kill these barbarians. But that is beneath the dignity of the Celestial Kingdom. Or we could expel them all. But the emperor does not wish to destroy all the trade, for some of it is beneficial to his people. The emperor wishes the barbarians to admit their crime and to acknowledge that the Celestial Kingdom is just. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Excellency.”
“Very well. They do not take us seriously. We must ensure that they do.” Lin nodded. “I will summon one or two of these barbarians, question them, and, if they are not cooperative, arrest them. That may have some effect.”
“Have you particular men in mind, Excellency?”
“There is one Englishman who is particularly insolent. Every report complained about him. His name is Dent. But I need another.”
“What about Odstock, the older merchant I met yesterday?” suggested Shi-Rong. “We know he has corrupted the merchant Zhou. He showed no sign of remorse, but I did not think he was a brave man. If he is frightened, he may give up his opium. And if one merchant yields, perhaps they will all give in.”
“Good,” said Lin. “Tomorrow, you will bring me Dent and Odstock.”
* * *
◦
Trader had gone to stretch his legs on the waterfront the next morning when he noticed a gaggle of men hastily backing out of Hog Lane. A moment later he saw that they were being pushed by Chinese soldiers. The soldiers wore blue tunics and conical hats and carried spears. They filled the entrance to the lane beside the English factory, but did not advance farther. Looking along the waterfront, he could see that Chinese soldiers filled the entrances to the other two lanes as well. The factories and the waterfront were being blocked off.
He’d just finished telling Tully about what had happened, and Tully was just putting on his jacket to come and see for himself, when they heard feet tramping up the stairs. Shi-Rong, flanked by two soldiers, with swords unsheathed, appeared in the narrow doorway, while one of the factory servants ducked in beside Shi-Rong to deliver a message. “Commissioner Lin wants Mr. Odstock to come, please.”
Odstock rose in a dignified manner and bowed politely to Shi-Rong, who returned the bow with equal politeness. If Tully felt fear, he concealed it well. He turned to Trader. “Suppose I’d better,” he said with a shrug. “You can stay and hold the fort till I get back.”
“You’re going to leave me?” Trader asked in horror.
And Tully would probably have gone that moment if the sound of someone bounding up the stairs hadn’t been followed immediately by the appearance of Matheson, who pushed past the soldiers furiously. “Don’t think of going, Odstock,” he cried. “They just came for Dent as well.”
“Did he agree to go?” Tully asked.
“To be precise, he said he didn’t give a damn and he’d be glad to tell the emperor of China what he thought of him.”
“Sounds like Dent.”
“However, I persuaded him not to go. In case he might never come back.”
Trader looked at Shi-Rong, who was standing there impassively, then at Matheson. “You think they’d…”
“Unlikely,” said Matheson. “But once Dent’s in their custody, you can’t be certain. And God knows if or when they’d give him back. In any case, it’s better if we all stick together. We don’t want Lin getting to work on us individually.” He turned to Tully. “You mustn’t go.”
“All right,” said Tully. He turned to Shi-Rong. “No can do.”
* * *
—
After Shi-Rong and his men had departed, Matheson gave Trader an encouraging smile. “They could have removed Dent and Odstock by force,” he pointed out. “This is a good sign.” But Trader wasn’t sure he sounded entirely convinced.
Meanwhile, the Chinese soldiers remained in the lanes, keeping the factories sealed off.
And the soldiers were still there the next morning. After a walk along the waterside, Tully and Trader went into the English factory library, where they found Matheson and a dozen others. Tully sank into a deep leather chair.
“Want a book?” asked Trader.
“Certainly not.”
Trader went to the bookshelves. Someone had left a copy of Dickens’s Pickwick Papers there. As the book had been published only a couple of years ago, he supposed someone had read it on the voyage out from England and obligingly donated it to the library on arrival. Perhaps the delightful comedy would take his mind off his troubles for a while. And so it did, for about twenty minutes, until one of the men gazing out the window exclaimed: “Good Lord, look at that.” And a moment later everyone in the library was crowding by the window, looking out on the open space below.
It was a melancholy little procession. Half a dozen Chinese soldiers were leading three members of the merchant Hong. They were all imposing figures. But no man could look dignified with an iron collar around his neck, attached to a chain being dragged by a soldier. One of them was Joker, whose face looked a picture of misery. In the middle of the open space, the procession turned to face the English factory and stopped. The soldier in command had a bamboo rod. Slashing at the back of Joker’s leg, he caused the old man to cry out and sink to his knees. He had no need to strike the other two, who took the hint and knelt immediately. Then the soldiers heaped the chains over the shoulders of the three men to weigh them down. Bowed and half crushed, as though about to perform the kowtow, the three merchants knelt there in the sun and the soldiers silently watched them. Nobody moved.
“Are they going to execute them?” asked Trader.
“They’re just trying to frighten us,” somebody said.
“Humbug,” said Tully Odstock with a snort. “Damned humbug.”
“I agree. They’re putting on a show,” said Matheson.
“All the same,” said Tully after a pause, “I hope Joker’s going to be all right. He owes me a fortune,” he added quietly.
“And Lin knows that, you may be sure,” said Matheson. “The only thing to do is take no notice at all.” And he moved away from the window.
But Trader went back to the window again, just before lunch. And again after lunch, when the sun was almost directly over the three men’s heads. After that, Tully retired to their quarters to take a nap, and Trader played a desultory game of billiards with Jardine’s nephew.
It was midafternoon when the Chinese delegation arrived. This time they were not armed. There was a magistrate, attended by two junior mandarins, young Shi-Rong, and Mr. Singapore. The magistrate went straight to Dent’s quarters. Shi-Rong and Mr. Singapore, followed closely by Trader, went to rouse Odstock.
The message, delivered by Mr. Singapore, was very simple. “Mr. Jiang is here to accompany Mr. Odstock to Commissioner Lin. He will stay here until Mr. Odstock comes.”
Odstock gazed at Shi-Rong for a long moment and then indicated a chair. “Take a seat,” he said, and went back
to bed.
Shi-Rong sat, and so did Trader. Mr. Singapore explained that he had to go, because Commissioner Lin wanted to make additions to his letter to Queen Victoria. So he left the two young men, sitting together but unable to speak.
It was in that half hour that Trader discovered, for the first time in his life, the frustration of lacking a common language.
Of course, there had been countless millions of people in India whose languages he couldn’t speak. But that didn’t seem so bad. Many Indian merchants and educated men spoke excellent English. And he often met Englishmen whose knowledge of India was deep and who would gladly explain the local customs, religion, and culture for hours at a time.
But China wasn’t like that at all. And now here he was, face-to-face with a young man not so unlike himself, who three days ago had tried to understand him and even to offer him friendly advice. They were probably going to spend hours together—hours during which each could have learned so much about the other’s world. Yet they couldn’t converse. The silence separated them just as effectively as a fortress wall.
He had the urge to pick up an object, any object, and indicate that he wanted to know its name in Chinese. Or he could point: head, hands, feet; sad face, happy face; anything. But Shi-Rong gave no sign that he was inviting conversation, and Trader remembered that the Chinese frowned upon foreigners who wanted to learn their language. So for the rest of the afternoon they sat in the small and stuffy room and learned nothing at all.
At last the light outside the window took on a faintly orange glow, and glancing at his fob watch, Trader realized that the sun was going down. He indicated to Shi-Rong that in a while it might be time to go to sleep. But Shi-Rong indicated in turn that he would be sleeping where he was unless Odstock were to come with him. So Trader showed him the small bedroom where he slept himself and indicated that Shi-Rong should use it. Then he went in to Tully and explained that he’d have the servants from the dining room bring food for Tully and the young mandarin. When he went down the stairs, Shi-Rong did nothing to detain him.
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