China

by Edward Rutherfurd

  Whatever had caused the missionary’s tirade, surely this would warn his cousin to be civil until they were alone. Trader glanced at Shi-Rong and his companion. Did they understand what Cecil was saying? He hoped they didn’t. But though the two Chinese were impassive, they gave no sign of moving.

  “That may be. But I am talking about the foul trade in opium, in which, despite giving promises to the contrary, you and your friends are still engaging at this very moment.”

  “No, I am not!” Trader cried. It was true. He might wish he was. But he wasn’t. He glanced at Shi-Rong and his companion. Did his wretched cousin have any idea how dangerous it was to say such things in front of these men? “Our friend here is secretary to the commissioner,” he chided him. “You should not say such things in front of him. Especially when they are entirely untrue.”

  “Do you deny that you are shipping cotton out of Manila, and that those cotton ships are secretly filled with opium?” cried Whiteparish.

  How the devil had he come by that information? And why in the name of Heaven was he blurting it out?

  “I utterly deny it. I deny it before God.”

  “Frankly, Cousin John, I don’t believe you. I know it is being done.” Whiteparish looked towards Shi-Rong. “As for our Chinese friends, when I consider the evil that we do to their people and the duplicity of all our dealings with them, I should prefer that we apologize to them instead of continuing to do them injury.”

  “You are mad,” said Trader contemptuously.

  “You think I’m not a gentleman,” Whiteparish continued bitterly.

  “I never said any such thing.”

  “You think it. But in the eyes of God, you ‘gentlemen’ are no better than thieves, a stain upon the honor of your country. I would not wish to be one of you. And as for this man…”—he indicated Shi-Rong—“I’d sooner he knew that not all Englishmen are like you. That there are good men in the British Parliament, honest, moral men, who are going to put a stop to your criminal activities very soon.”

  Trader glanced at Shi-Rong and his companion. Their faces were blank.

  “You’d better learn to speak Chinese, then,” he observed drily, “because they don’t understand a word you’re saying.”

  “They won’t even need to. Have you heard of young Mr. Gladstone? A man of increasing importance. I have it on good authority that he is going to oppose you and your foul trade in Parliament, and that he will carry many members with him.”

  Trader gazed at his kinsman. This was the trouble with being unworldly, he thought. Imperfect information. “You consider Mr. Gladstone a moral gentleman?” he asked.

  “I do.”

  “He occupies the position he does in public life, which allows him to make his moralistic speeches, because his father made a great fortune. Do you know what this family fortune comes from?”

  “I do not.”

  “The slave trade. His father made his fortune trading slaves. It’s illegal now, of course. And it’s only a few years since young Mr. Gladstone defended the slave trade in Parliament and won a huge monetary compensation for his father when that trade was finally abolished. So I really don’t want to hear Gladstone preaching morals to me.”

  He watched. Whiteparish sagged, the wind quite taken out of his sails. “What you do is still evil,” he muttered.

  It was just then that Trader noticed something. A fleeting expression on the face of Shi-Rong’s companion. What was it: a flash of amusement, a trace of irony? A second later, the face was impassive again. But did it mean that the fellow had understood what they were saying after all?

  He couldn’t take a chance. For the common good, his tiresome cousin must be sacrificed. “And now let me tell you something, Whiteparish,” he said fiercely. “You have already acquired a reputation here on Macao. Your misdeeds in the past—I will not embarrass you by naming them—dishonesty, unnatural vices, they are known to the whole British community. And realizing that your past has been uncovered, you seek to revenge yourself upon us all by spreading infamous lies. Yes, sir, your true character is known. You are an unmitigated liar, sir. A liar. And we all know it.” Whiteparish had started by looking stupefied. Now his face was going red with anger. “Well may you blush, sir,” cried Trader. “Well may you blush.”

  “I have never, in my life…” Whiteparish stuttered.

  “You are confounded. You are exposed as the villain you are. You have invented this illicit opium dealing just to take revenge upon your betters. I may even report you to Elliot. I shall sue you for slander, and so will anyone else whose reputation you attempt to sully with your lies.”

  He turned upon his heel and began to walk away. As he hoped, Whiteparish stuck at his side, protesting and expostulating all the way. He kept him at it until they were halfway down the hill and safely away from the commissioner’s secretary. He hoped his ruse had worked.

  And he was far out of hearing when Shi-Rong turned to his interpreter and demanded: “Tell me everything they said.”

  * * *

  ◦

  “Perhaps it’ll be a boy,” Second Son reminded Mei-Ling. But she shook her head. “I’m so afraid it’ll be a girl,” she said. How many times had they had this conversation? At least a hundred.

  Nobody in the village thought Mother had smothered Willow’s baby anymore. Willow never said so. Second Son never imagined such a thing in the first place. Mei-Ling didn’t think so, either, and didn’t want to. Indeed, Mother had shown her nothing but kindness all through her pregnancy.

  Of course, Mei-Ling knew she wouldn’t be so popular if she gave birth to a girl. She wouldn’t blame Mother for that. It was just the way things were. She could imagine what people in the village would say if, after the eldest son had twice failed to produce a male heir, Second Son had a girl, too. They’d say the Lung family was unlucky. Mr. Lung might have money, but the family would surely lose face.

  If only Willow’s second baby had been a boy. Mei-Ling wished it had been—not only for poor Willow’s sake, but because that would have put Mother in such a good mood she mightn’t care so much whether Second Son’s child was a boy or not.

  Meanwhile, her mother-in-law was being nicer to her than ever. Sometimes, while Willow was working about the house, the older woman would sit and talk to Mei-Ling, telling her things about the family in the old days, just as if she were the daughter-in-law she’d always wanted.

  “You’re the favored daughter now,” Willow said to her sadly. “The one who’s going to have the baby boy.”

  “And if I don’t?” asked Mei-Ling.

  Willow said nothing.

  * * *

  —

  It was a month before the baby was due that the nightmare returned. It came in the small hours of the morning. It was the same as before. She’d had the baby. It was a girl. Mother had scooped the baby up in her arms and left the room. And then suddenly Mei-Ling was in the courtyard, looking for the baby, going from room to room. The baby had vanished.

  She woke with a start. She knew it had been a nightmare, yet she couldn’t get free of it. She was shaking, panting…She took some deep breaths, made herself calm down, told herself not to be foolish.

  Then she turned to look at her husband. She could see Second Son’s face by the faint light of the lantern that they kept in their room in case she needed to get up in the night. He was smiling in his sleep. Was her sweet-natured husband dreaming a happy dream, or was it just the natural smile of his kindly face in repose? She wanted to wake him, to tell him her dream and feel his comforting arms around her. But he’d been so tired after his long day’s work, she couldn’t bring herself to disturb his rest.

  So she bided her time as best she could and told him in the morning. And again he assured her that no such thing would happen, and that he would be there to defend the baby in any case.

  A week lat
er the dream recurred, and again he comforted her.

  But when, some days later, the nightmare afflicted her a third time, she kept it to herself and did not burden Second Son. And she was glad she did, for the panic wore off, and Mother was just as kind to her as ever.

  As the time approached, she was getting very big and her back hurt, and she was really looking forward to getting the pregnancy over with. But Mother warned her: “The first baby’s often a bit late.”

  Mr. Lung had to go over to the local town on business, and he took Second Son with him. They set out in their cart at noon on one day, and promised to be back before noon the day after.

  * * *

  —

  It was in the middle of the night that the terrible cramps began. They made her moan, then cry out.

  Then the door opened and Mother entered, carrying a lighted candle. “What is it, Daughter?”

  “I do not know. I have cramps. They’re so bad.”

  The older woman came over, placed the candle on a table close by, made her lie still, and examined her. Then without a word, she went to the door and called for Willow. A couple of moments later, she heard Mother’s voice. “Go and fetch the midwife. Tell her to come. Now!”

  * * *

  —

  They were kind to her. The midwife gave her an herbal brew to lessen the pain. Her mother-in-law was in the room constantly, reassuring her, soothing her. Again and again Mei-Ling asked her: “Is it true, do you swear that Second Son will be back in the morning?”

  “I promise, little one,” Mother said, her hard, broad face surprisingly tender.

  If only she could be sure. She wanted her husband to be there more than anything in the world. If Second Son was there, everything would be all right. For she was sure it was a girl now. She didn’t know how, but she was sure.

  Dawn came and she was still in labor. Despite all the pain, she had only one desire: to delay the birth. Could she hold out until noon?

  Every few minutes she’d cry out to the midwife, “Is he here? Has my husband come?” To which the puzzled midwife could only reply: “He’ll be here soon enough, I daresay.” And then: “Don’t be silly, child. The baby wants to come out now. Take a breath now…Again…Push…”

  “No!”

  “The girl’s quite mad,” she heard the midwife say to Mother. And she wondered, did Mother guess why she wanted Second Son to be there?

  But nature will take its course. Just as the sun was coming over the horizon, her child was born. She saw the little being in the midwife’s hands. Moments later, to her horror, she saw the baby in Mother’s arms.

  And then, to her surprise, her mother-in-law came to her side, her face wreathed in smiles. “Just as I told you, Daughter. We have a little boy.”

  * * *

  —

  There were many customs to follow after a Chinese birth. Mei-Ling wouldn’t be allowed out of the house for a month. She mustn’t wash her hair. Or her hands or feet or face. She had nothing to do, really. Her mother-in-law would do everything, including tending to the baby if he woke in the night.

  One duty, about an hour after the baby was born, was to breastfeed him. Again, Mother was at her side. As she took the baby and put it to her breast, she was surprised when nothing happened. “Did I do something wrong?” she asked.

  “No. Be patient.” Mother smiled. “It took your husband a moment or two to work it out when he was born. There now. He’s got it.”

  Mei-Ling’s mother arrived around noon with baby clothes and towels. It was the custom. They were not of high quality, naturally, but her mother-in-law received them as politely as if they had been from the royal court. Mei-Ling was grateful for that.

  There was only one time of sadness during that day. Just after noon, Willow came in to see her. She did not look angry, only depressed. “Aren’t you the lucky one?” she said. “You had a boy.”

  “You’ll have a boy next time,” said Mei-Ling.

  “Perhaps.” She paused. “I don’t hate you. I really don’t. I envy you, but I don’t hate you.” She gazed at the baby, who was asleep. “I hate your baby, though.”

  “Don’t hate my baby, Sister,” Mei-Ling cried. “Hate me, if you must, but don’t hate my baby.”

  Willow took a long breath, sighed, and shook her head. “How?”

  Second Son arrived an hour later. Mother brought him into the room. He was smiling at her, just exactly the way he had been smiling in his sleep. As he inspected the baby, his smile turned into a huge grin.

  * * *

  ◦

  Sometimes it seemed to John Trader that he was not destined to find any peace in this world. He’d known peace of a kind on Macao, briefly, thanks to Read and Marissa. But if he hoped to steal happiness from China, the Celestial Kingdom was not willing to be cheated for his sake. And now the implacable Commissioner Lin was going to kick him out of Macao, and even perhaps out of the China seas.

  Two days after the encounter with Cecil Whiteparish, he heard from Tully Odstock that the Chinese had cut off all food supplies to Macao from the mainland. “We can manage for a while,” said Tully. But a few days later came more ominous news. “Lin’s moving a lot of soldiers down the coast towards us,” Tully told him. “Daresay it’s just a show of force.”

  Was this all a retaliation for Elliot’s refusal to hand over any sailors to his justice? Had he got wind of Matheson’s latest opium smuggling—thanks to Whiteparish’s outburst in front of Shi-Rong, perhaps? Trader didn’t know. But whatever the cause, one thing was clear.

  “Lin doesn’t trust us, and he wants the upper hand,” he said. “The question is, how far is he prepared to go?”

  Macao, after all, still had a Portuguese governor, who was free to rule the place. The governor had some troops as well.

  But people were getting nervous. Meeting him in the street one morning, Elliot told him frankly: “Our friend the Portuguese governor is furious about the supplies and the threatening behavior. His domain is Portuguese territory, and he’s prepared to defend it if he has to. I can’t fault his courage. But I have to consider the safety of all our people. We may have to leave.”

  “Where would we go?”

  “Hong Kong.”

  “But there’s nothing there except the anchorage. Are we going to camp on the beach?”

  “No. We can live on our ships. It won’t be enjoyable, but we should be safe. We can stay there a few months and see what happens.”

  “So I’d better get ready to leave Macao,” Trader said sadly.

  Elliot gave him an understanding smile. Obviously he knew about Marissa.

  “I’m afraid so. All good things come to an end,” he added quietly.

  “Living bottled up in ships sounds like hell,” Trader said morosely. Elliot didn’t contradict him.

  And that afternoon, the superintendent made it official, telling the whole community they must prepare to leave. The day after, he set off himself, to prepare the arrangements in the great empty harbor at Hong Kong.

  * * *

  —

  On the twenty-fifth day of August, Commissioner Lin informed the Portuguese governor of Macao that the British people on his island should leave. The Chinese war junks now arriving would not impede their departure. All other nationals might remain, including the Americans, so long as they were not engaged in the opium trade.

  John Trader was one of the last to leave the island. His final afternoon, he went for a walk with Read. As he was an American, Read could stay.

  “I shall miss your company, Read,” said John.

  “We shall meet again.”

  “Certainly. I owe you money.”

  “You’ll pay when you can.”

  “What do you think is going to happen?”

  “The opium trade will resume. It has to.”

 
“Why?”

  “Because this year’s crop is already grown in India. Some of it is on the high seas already. It seems to me that destroying drugs is a waste of time. Lin’s just created a pent-up demand for the next supply. And it’ll get through—somehow or other. Exactly how remains to be seen.”

  “I hope you’re right, for both our sakes.” Trader paused. They were standing by the cannon, looking out across the island and the sea. “I must confess,” he remarked sadly, “I’m starting to wish I were selling something else. Something that does people good. Something really necessary.” He sighed.

  “Trading in something that’s not bad is certainly possible. Most people do. But trading in something necessary…” Read grinned. “That’s another matter. That’s hard to do.”

  “Is it?”

  “Of course it is, Trader. Do you know how my ancestors made their first money? On the Hudson River in old New York. You know what that trade was? Beaver pelts. Bought from America’s Indians. To make felt hats. Felt hats were all the rage in England. Other countries, too. Were they useful? Yes. Were they necessary? Not really. Felt was the fashion. That’s all. Yet that’s how the great city of New York began. Same with tobacco. Is it necessary? No. Or the mighty trade in sugar? Needed? Only partly. A lot of the sugar crop goes into rum, for the sailors of the British Navy. How did that begin? The men who owned the sugar plantations were producing too much. Prices were falling. So the powerful sugar interest lobbied the British Parliament to give a tot of rum to every British sailor every day. The British Navy drank the rum and kept the price of sugar up.”

  “And now we sell tea.”

  “Exactly. China tea. No harm in tea at all. And the British consumption of tea is one of the wonders of the modern world. But could the British do without their cup of tea? Of course they could. Very little of what we do, my friend, is necessary.” He nodded. “It’s a humbling thought.”