China

by Edward Rutherfurd

  That night they all dined together on board Tully’s ship. Then Read said he wanted to talk to Odstock alone, so Trader went on deck and watched the sun go down. From where the ship was anchored, he could see out past a scattering of islands to the sea beyond. High above, the dark green heights of the Peak caught the sun’s red rays, then slowly turned from orange green to indigo and finally, as Read emerged, to black.

  “I’m going back to the ship,” said Read. “We’re transferring the tea to a larger vessel tomorrow. Then I’ll go to Whampoa again for more.”

  “Will I be coming with you?”

  “No, Odstock wants you here. Goodnight.”

  After he had gone, Trader remained on deck for a while. The night sky was bright with stars. He thought of Marissa again. He had a great urge to see her. Maybe not to speak to her, but just to look at her. He wondered if perhaps he could slip over to Macao on some pretext.

  Finally he went below. Tully was in his hammock, still awake. In the lamplight, it seemed to Trader that the older man gave him a somewhat thoughtful look. But Tully didn’t say anything, so Trader closed his eyes and went to sleep.

  * * *

  —

  The next couple of weeks passed quietly enough. Read undertook two more voyages to Whampoa to bring out tea; on the second voyage, he was able to go in with a cargo of cotton as well.

  But if Read was busy, Trader was not. Three times he asked Tully if he could visit Macao, and each time Tully refused. So like everyone else, he was obliged to spend most of his time confined on board, though he and Tully would also visit their friends on other ships in search of gossip and amusement. And news, of course; but news was in short supply.

  * * *

  —

  “The fact is, there won’t be any news,” said Tully, “and I’ll tell you why. What you have here is a stalemate. It’s a simple point of principle. The Chinese are saying: ‘When in China, obey our laws.’ We’re saying no. All the rest is humbug. Lin says, ‘Tell you what, we’ll forget about that villager you killed if you just agree to obey our laws in the future.’ Humbug. Elliot’s just told Lin: ‘You can inspect our ships, check there’s no opium on board before you let us upriver. But we’re not subject to your laws. Won’t sign your bond.’ More humbug.”

  “I’ve heard,” said Trader, “that some of the British vessels are entering the river so that if Lin were to agree to let them through after inspection, they’ll race up to Whampoa and get the best tea first.”

  “I know. I call them the Hopeful Boys. They can sit in the river all they like, but Lin isn’t going to fall for it. Point of principle. Sign the bond. Obey our law or go to hell.”

  “Elliot’s just playing for time, isn’t he?”

  “Waiting for the navy, I’d say.” Tully shrugged. “If London decides to send it.”

  But there was no news from London. Not a word.

  * * *

  —

  It was a clear, sunny day when a party of a dozen young fellows, sick of being cooped up on their ships, set out to climb to the top of the Peak. John Trader was one of them.

  Having passed through the scattering of fishermen’s huts by the water’s edge, they were soon in the thick woods that covered the hill. At first the going was easy. Most of them had walking sticks of some kind. They carried just enough food and wine to have a picnic at the summit.

  Gradually the track became steeper. John found that he was sweating a little. He smiled, happy to stretch his legs and get a bit of exercise. They followed a track that circled the big hill, and nearly an hour had passed before, about two-thirds of the way up, they encountered some big outcroppings of rock, where they paused to gaze down at the water, already over a thousand feet below, and feel the breeze on their faces.

  During the final part of the climb, the trees thinned and the path broke up into a landscape of scattered rock and tree root. This was hard going, but it didn’t take too long before they reached the summit.

  They looked down in awe, from eighteen hundred feet above the water, at the great panorama of Hong Kong.

  Finally somebody spoke. “I knew it was a fine harbor, but it’s only up here that you really see the hand of the Creator.”

  It was true, thought Trader. Even taken alone, the high, rocky island of Hong Kong would have provided a sheltered channel between itself and the Chinese mainland. But when the monsoon gales came hurtling across the gulf’s broad entrance, they’d have churned those Hong Kong channel waters into a frenzy, had it not been for a blessed protective barrier.

  It lay to the west, just a few miles away, between Hong Kong and the gulf—a long, thin island with its own high mountains, which zigzagged across the waters like a Chinese screen. This was Lantau, which formed the western wall of Hong Kong’s huge protected harbor.

  But the Creator had done more. Halfway along the Hong Kong channel, China’s huge mainland stuck out a dragon’s tongue at the island. This tongue was the broad low-lying promontory known as Kowloon, and it divided the channel into two parts, west and east, leaving a narrow passage between them. Ships that threaded eastward through this passage came into another, smaller harbor, known as the Bay of Kowloon, within whose intimate embrace they could ride out even a typhoon.

  So it was hardly surprising that John Trader should remark: “The Portuguese have got Macao. Perhaps we could take over this place.”

  * * *

  —

  The picnic was over and the party was just preparing to go down the hill again when Trader noticed something strange.

  Amongst all the vast collection of vessels at the huge anchorage of Hong Kong, there were just two ships of the Royal Navy. Both were small. The Volage carried twenty-eight guns, twelve on each side, plus four more on the quarterdeck, which qualified her to be called a frigate. The Hyacinth was only a sloop, armed with sixteen cannon and a couple of nine-pounders in the bow.

  What caught Trader’s eye was a pinnace carrying somebody out to the Volage. Having paused to let its passenger embark, the pinnace went on to the Hyacinth, where it remained for a few minutes. While it waited, he saw the Volage weighing anchor. The Hyacinth shortly followed suit. And then they both began to bear away towards the gulf.

  Turning to his companions, Trader pointed. “Why the devil are those two navy ships going off in such a hurry?” he asked. But nobody had any idea.

  * * *

  —

  A few hours later, Tully told him the news. “I don’t know why,” he moaned, “but whenever there’s a disaster, it always comes out of the blue.”

  “You say a British merchant vessel has come in directly from London? And that it ignored Elliot’s instructions?”

  “Yes. Came by way of Bombay. Goes into the Gulf of Canton. Doesn’t stop to ask, just sails through to the Bogue, and when the Chinese tell the captain he has to sign Lin’s bond, he signs the accursed thing as if it’s no more than a ticket to a play and goes straight in to Whampoa.”

  “Perhaps he didn’t understand what he was doing.”

  “Oh, he knew all right. Didn’t give a damn. And now he’s cut the ground from under our feet. The entire merchant fleet, Elliot, the British government, the lot of us.”

  “We could tell Lin it was a mistake.”

  “Nonsense. Lin will say: ‘You told me that no British vessel can sign the bond. You lied to me. And if this captain, straight from London, can obey Chinese law, then so can you. End of story.’ In his place, I’d say the same.”

  “What’ll we do?”

  “Elliot’s taken the Volage and the Hyacinth up the gulf. Supposedly to protect the Hopeful Boys up there, but really to make damn sure they don’t get the same idea and sign the bond themselves.”

  “What will Lin do?”

  “Who knows? Tell us to sign or get out. I hope we’ll refuse. Then he may cut off our supplies. He
can do that. Poison the wells. God knows.”

  “Is there going to be a fight?”

  Tully considered. “Quite apart from the fact that Elliot’s only got two warships, he doesn’t have authority to start a war.” He paused. “I’m not sure Lin has, either.”

  “So no fighting yet.”

  “Oh, I didn’t say that. Wars are like riots. They can start by mistake.”

  * * *

  ◦

  Nio stood outside Shi-Rong’s door. It was evening, and the lamps were lit. For three days they had occupied billets with the artillerymen at the fort, so as to be near at hand. And now it was nearly time.

  Nio saw Commissioner Lin approaching and opened the door to announce him. As Lin passed through and Shi-Rong rose respectfully from the table where he was writing, Nio closed the door, but this time he remained inside the room, curious to hear what they said. Neither Shi-Rong nor Lin appeared to notice him.

  “Tomorrow morning? You are sure?” Lin asked sharply.

  “I am certain, Excellency. Two of my dragon boats have shadowed them all the way. The headwinds are still slowing the barbarian warships, but by dawn we’ll see them from the promontory. Captain Smith is the commander, but my men believe Elliot is on board.”

  “You have done well.” Lin paused a moment. “I was wrong to offer Elliot a compromise over the murder. I was wrong to negotiate with him at all. His actions have shown his true nature. He told me that British captains could never sign the bond. And now we know this was a lie. He despises truth. He despises the law. He’s just a pirate, and we shall act accordingly.” As he turned to leave, Lin glanced at the table. “What were you writing?”

  “I was copying a poem, Excellency, by the great Yuan Mei.”

  “Good.” Lin nodded. “Whenever possible, in quiet moments, we should attend to calligraphy. This is how a busy servant of the emperor restores his balance and good judgment.” He looked at Shi-Rong thoughtfully. “After this business is over, you should return to your studies and take the exams again. You are capable of holding high office one day. But the examination system—quite rightly—is the only path that leads there.”

  After the commissioner had left, Nio could see that Shi-Rong was moved.

  * * *

  —

  Soon after dawn, with the wind pressing his back, Shi-Rong stood beside Commissioner Lin on the promontory and gazed through his brass telescope at the choppy grey waters of the gulf.

  On the left, near the site where the opium had been destroyed, lay Admiral Guan’s fleet, ready for action; a little farther away, the convoy of British merchant ships, waiting to be allowed up to Whampoa; and in the distance, he could clearly see the Volage and the Hyacinth coming slowly up the gulf towards them.

  Lin put out his hand for the telescope, gazed through it for a minute, then turned to Shi-Rong.

  “Go to Admiral Guan with this message: If the barbarians want to talk, tell them we do not negotiate with criminals. My suggestion about the murderer is nullified. They must hand over the real murderer at once. No British ship will trade until its captain has signed the bond and submitted to our laws. Take Mr. Singapore the interpreter with you.” He paused. “If the barbarians attack, the admiral has permission to destroy them. That is all.”

  “Excellency…” Shi-Rong gave him a hopeful look. “May I remain on board the admiral’s ship—so he can send me back for more instructions?”

  “You wish to join the action.” Lin gave a faint smile. “You may stay if you are not in the admiral’s way.”

  Nio was waiting with a small dragon boat. It did not take long to reach the admiral’s war junk. Having gone up the side with Mr. Singapore, he delivered his message. To his delight, the admiral agreed he could stay aboard.

  “Pull into the shore and wait,” Shi-Rong called down to Nio. “I’ll signal when I need you. If there’s a battle,” he added, “you’ll have a good view.”

  * * *

  —

  There was no question, Admiral Guan was a splendid figure: a true Chinese warrior of the old school. Still handsome at nearly sixty, holding himself ramrod straight. He had a big strong face with a thin, drooping mustache, and his eyes were wise but fearless. His courtesy was well known, and he treated the young mandarin as a fellow gentleman. “You hope to see a little action, Mr. Jiang?”

  “If there is action, my lord, I wouldn’t want to miss it,” Shi-Rong replied.

  “Don’t hope for too much. I’ve sixteen fully armed war junks and a dozen fire boats as well. The British would be foolish to take us on.”

  Just then Shi-Rong caught sight of Mr. Singapore standing sorrowfully on the deck, farther aft. He looked like a wilting flower. “Our interpreter is not so eager for battle,” Admiral Guan remarked drily.

  It was a couple of hours before the two British naval vessels came close enough to send a cutter, manned by three pairs of oarsmen, across to the admiral’s war junk. A young British naval officer came briskly on board and saluted, followed by a large gentleman who clambered up more slowly and who introduced himself, in quite good Chinese, as Van Buskirk, the missionary.

  At a nod from the admiral, Mr. Singapore then delivered, in his best English, the official message from Lin. The naval officer frowned slightly and replied that it would be difficult to offer any culprit for the unfortunate killing of the Chinese villager, since all the men involved had been sent away to England. “Nonetheless,” he continued, “I will return at once with your message and come back to you again with further proposals.” With a polite bow, he then withdrew.

  “What do you make of that?” Admiral Guan asked Shi-Rong as the cutter was rowed away. “Surely there’s nothing to talk about.”

  “I’m wondering if our interpreter, hoping to keep the peace, may have softened the message.”

  Admiral Guan stared bleakly at Mr. Singapore, but said nothing.

  When the officer and Van Buskirk returned an hour later, the admiral commanded Shi-Rong: “Tell the missionary exactly what Commissioner Lin said, word for word.”

  As Shi-Rong did so, it was clear that Van Buskirk understood him perfectly, while Mr. Singapore looked dismayed. The missionary then carefully delivered the message to the officer, in English. The officer winced slightly and then said, “Oh.”

  But now it was Van Buskirk who spoke, in Chinese.

  “Will you permit me, Admiral, as an observer, to offer a word? Superintendent Elliot desires to reach an accommodation if he can. But the two naval vessels you see are under the direct command of Captain Smith, a fearless naval commander, like yourself. And if Smith thinks our ships are threatened, he will demand that Elliot permit him to fight.”

  “Is he a pirate, like Elliot?” the admiral tersely demanded.

  “Elliot is not a pirate, sir.”

  “So you say.” Admiral Guan indicated that he would hear no more.

  After the delegation left, the remainder of the day passed without any movement from the British ships.

  That evening, Mr. Singapore approached Shi-Rong. “The admiral has no confidence in me,” he said sadly. “And the barbarian missionary speaks Chinese anyway. I should offer my resignation and ask the admiral’s permission to withdraw.”

  When Shi-Rong gave the message to the admiral, that worthy man only grunted. “He’s afraid there may be a fight,” he said. “Tell him he’s not to leave. Permission denied.”

  Later, as they ate together in the admiral’s stateroom on board, Shi-Rong asked the old commander what he thought would happen next.

  “If your enemy is strong,” Guan answered, “he attacks. If he hesitates, it means that he is weak. Every Chinese commander knows this. The barbarians hesitate because they know that if there’s a battle, they will lose.” He gave a nod. “But I will tell you something interesting: It is possible to win a battle without fighting.”r />
  “How is that done, Lord?”

  “I will show you,” Guan told him, “in the morning.”

  * * *

  —

  The sun was already up when the admiral made his move. Shi-Rong stood at his side as the entire fleet of twenty-eight vessels, war junks and fire ships combined, sailed out into the gulf towards the British merchantmen.

  “We’re going to place ourselves between the merchantmen and the naval ships,” Admiral Guan explained. “From there we can send in our fire ships to burn them any time we want.”

  “But you won’t actually engage.”

  “Correct. The British warships will then be left with only two options. They must either attack us or withdraw themselves and the merchantmen.”

  “So you’re forcing them either to fight or to be humiliated. You can win a battle without firing a shot.”

  “Exactly.”

  * * *

  —

  For the next quarter of an hour, as the Chinese fleet moved slowly down the gulf, neither man spoke. Gazing southwards through his telescope, Shi-Rong did not detect any movement on the part of the British ships. He did notice a single merchantman in the distance, making its way up the gulf towards them; but he couldn’t see what flag it was flying.

  He was quite surprised when the admiral suddenly turned to him and remarked: “The emperor would not consider we are acting irresponsibly. Do you agree?”

  It hadn’t occurred to Shi-Rong that the tough old admiral might be troubled by such doubts. He understood, of course. In the great bureaucracy of the Empire under Heaven, no man was likely to rise to high rank if he hadn’t mastered the gentle art of guessing the emperor’s intentions and protecting his back from his friends.

  “We are not attacking, Lord,” he offered.

  “One could argue we’re provoking a fight.”