“Trader’s a gentleman,” her mother said.
“Not the way Father is.”
“One can’t have everything, you know. A lot of girls in your position would be very pleased to secure Mr. Trader. If you want a big place in Scotland, he’s probably your best chance of getting it.” Her mother sighed. “You may just have to wait, that’s all.”
“What will I do in the meantime?”
“Have children,” her mother said firmly. “With luck you’ll have the place in Scotland while they’re still at school.”
“Paid for with trade.”
“That’s right.”
“The opium trade.”
“Do you want the place in Scotland or not?” her mother asked tartly.
“Oh yes,” Agnes murmured, “I do.”
She was never entirely alone with him, of course, but when they all went out walking, her mother and Charlie would sometimes go on a little ahead and not look back. And she and John Trader would talk softly of Scotland and the estate they would have one day, God willing. She sensed a gentleness in him and a love of the country that pleased her very much; and she imagined him as the country gentleman she would shape him into once the unfortunate if necessary business of making money in the China trade was done.
It was the end of summer when Trader came to call for a final time before he returned to Calcutta. The Lomonds were also due to return, but ten days later. Trader came alone this time. He was already sitting and chatting to her mother in the garden when Agnes came out to greet him. As she approached, she noticed something different about him. The sling was gone, and his left hand was free of its dressing.
She saw her mother give her a look that seemed to say “All’s well.” Trader rose politely from his chair. Her mother called out: “John has his other hand back, all healed, thank God!”
And so it was. One could see a scar or two, but that was all.
“I’m so glad,” said Agnes.
She sat down.
“That only leaves the eye,” said Trader. “Bit of a mess, I’m afraid. But I wear the eye patch, of course.” He smiled apologetically. Agnes noticed he’d gone rather pale.
Then he took the eye patch off.
The doctors had done their best. Perhaps a London surgeon could have made a cleaner job of it. But the shards of glass had done terrible damage as they cut through his eye. One great cicatrix carved its way down from his eyebrow to his cheek. Two others crossed it at different angles. Across the socket where his eye had been, the flaps of skin had been sewn together like crazy paving.
He put the eye patch back on. Agnes stared. She hadn’t seen it before.
And received a look from her mother that would have stopped a bolting horse dead in its tracks.
“Of course,” said Mrs. Lomond—she sat very straight and calm—“when one’s spent so much of one’s life with the army and seen so many people with the most terrible injuries, one realizes how grateful one should be to have only one. You have good health, all your limbs, every advantage.” She smiled. “And the eye patch looks rather dashing, you know. I suppose, to a woman, it’s a sign that someone’s a man rather than a boy.” She turned to Agnes. “Don’t you agree?”
Agnes bowed her head. There could be no mistaking her mother’s meaning. This, she was showing her daughter, is how to be a lady. From a duchess on a great estate in England to a colonel’s wife in some remote hill station in India, it was all the same. Grace under pressure. Considering the feelings of others. Good posture was always a great help. That’s why girls were taught not to droop.
“I do,” said Agnes, collecting herself as best she could.
“John was telling me that Charlie wants him to take part in a play he and his friends are getting up,” her mother calmly resumed. “He was asking me what I think.”
“Charlie and I are supposed to be a pair of officers, one always drunk and the other always sober,” Trader explained. “The trouble is, we both want to be drunk.”
“I really don’t know,” said Agnes, and forced a smile.
“Are you good at being drunk?” asked Mrs. Lomond.
“Charlie’s had much more practice,” he answered promptly.
“Perhaps you should take turns,” Mrs. Lomond suggested. “You could be drunk one night, he the next. Or is there to be only a single performance?”
“What a good idea,” said Trader. “Why didn’t we think of that? There will be two performances, by the way.”
And so they continued, as tea was served, and Agnes pretended to listen.
She understood. He’d known he must show her his eye. He couldn’t hide it from her until they were married. But why did he have to wait so long?
Because he hoped that if he waited, she’d come to know him first, come to love him for himself, so that she wouldn’t mind the eye. He’d waited in hope that she would love him. Damn him. If only she had loved him, it would all have been all right.
When Colonel Lomond joined them, Trader remarked to him apologetically that he’d showed the ladies his eye. “Bit of a mess, I’m afraid, sir.”
“Let’s have a look,” said the colonel, as if it were a bee sting. So Trader lifted the eye patch again. “It’s healed, I see,” Lomond remarked. “Won’t give you any trouble now. I shouldn’t give it a thought, if I were you.”
* * *
—
After Trader had gone, and Agnes and her mother were alone, Mrs. Lomond gave her a nod of approval. “You did very well, Agnes,” she said. “I was proud of you.”
“Mother, I can’t!” her daughter suddenly cried. “That awful hole where his eye should be. I had no idea. It’s hideous.”
For a moment Mrs. Lomond was silent. “You must,” she said firmly. “It’s not so important. And you certainly won’t think about it after you’ve been married a while.”
“How can you say that?” Agnes wailed.
“My child, I’m sorry to say this, but it’s time that you grew up. When you marry someone, you commit to love them, honor and cherish them. We love our husbands for their character, including their faults. I don’t mean great wickednesses, but the small faults we all have. And we love each other in body as well as soul. And the body isn’t perfect, either, but we love it because we love the person. You’re really quite fortunate. John Trader is a very handsome man. He has one blemish. Not a very large one, I may say, as these things go.” She paused. “So you must love that blemish, too. For his sake. That is your gift to him. By doing that, you’ll earn his love and his gratitude. It will actually be a bond. If you can’t, you will have an unhappy husband. And then you will be unhappy, too. And in my opinion, you won’t deserve to be happy.”
A silence fell between them.
“Mother, I don’t think I can,” said Agnes finally. She thought, and slowly shook her head. “It’s so…” She stopped. “I don’t want him to touch me…” she blurted out.
“You’ve had a shock,” said Mrs. Lomond calmly. “Just wait a few days, take time to get used to the idea, and I promise you it won’t seem so terrible after a little while. If you truly cannot get over it, then perhaps you shouldn’t marry. It’s not fair to him, apart from anything else. But I advise you to consider very carefully. You may not get a better offer. Or any offer.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“For a start,” said her mother frankly, “you might think about him, instead of yourself.”
“That’s easy to say.”
“My child, you’ve been brought up a Christian. If you were to talk to the vicar about this, I’m sure he’d tell you to pray, and he’d be right. So I suggest you think about what sort of wife you want to be, and then say your prayers.” She gave her daughter a look of admonishment. “I don’t want to hear anything more about this today.”
Agnes went into the house in
great unhappiness. Before retiring to her bedroom, however, she passed the door of the library, where her father was writing a letter. And thinking she might get some support from that quarter, she knocked and entered. “Papa.”
“Yes?” He looked up.
“I know you’ve always had your doubts about Trader.”
“I’m getting used to him.” He gave her a shrewd look. “Why?”
“I’m not sure I want to marry him.”
“I see.” He laid down his pen. “Is it something he’s done?”
“No, Papa.”
“Might this have anything to do with his eye?”
“Yes. I can’t…”
“Can’t what?”
“I can’t bear the sight of it…I can’t…Oh, Papa…” She looked at him beseechingly.
But her father had had enough. “Am I to understand,” he began quietly, “that a daughter of mine…”—his voice began to rise—“wants to reject a very fair offer of marriage…”—he drew breath before continuing his crescendo—“just because her future husband happened to lose an eye? Do you suppose,” he fairly shouted, “if I’d been wounded in action when you were a little girl, lost a limb even, that your dear mother would have taken one look, upped sticks, and bolted? Well?” he roared. “Do you?” He banged his fist on the table so hard that the pen jumped up as though to stand at attention. And in a voice that might have been heard in the Himalayas along the horizon, he bellowed, “How dare you, miss? Who the devil do you think you are?”
And greatly frightened, Agnes fled; she threw herself on her bed and wept. And later, as her mother said she should, she tried to pray. And the nights following.
June 1840
Shi-Rong read his aunt’s letter again. There could be no mistaking its meaning.
Your father wishes me to tell you that he is well. Since he has an indisposition at present, he has asked me to write this letter for him. We are none of us getting any younger, of course. Please come to see us when Commissioner Lin can spare you. I am to say that it is your dutiful service to the emperor and the lord Lin that gives your father his greatest pride and joy.
His father was sinking. Perhaps not fast, but evidently he was too weak to write for himself. His aunt wanted him to come home to bid the old man farewell. His father wouldn’t hear of it. And the message the old man had sent was not to remind him of his duty. It was to absolve him. To tell him not to reproach himself if he could not come, for his father would rather he stayed where he was and served the emperor, as his father had always told him to do.
It was correct. But it was also kindly.
He was doubly glad that he’d sent his father a letter just a week ago, full of good news.
For Lin was more pleased with him than ever. His dragon boats had been notably successful. Just recently, they’d intercepted some British longboats on an illegal patrol, out in the gulf. The barbarians had been routed and their leader, an officer named Churchill, apparently from one of their noble families, had been killed.
Might he go to see his father now? He longed to do so. How would Lin take it if he asked? He was just pondering this question when a messenger arrived.
The fellow was trembling. He thrust a report into Shi-Rong’s hand. And a minute later Shi-Rong was hurrying to the lord Lin’s chamber.
The great man received the report with complete calm.
“You say a fleet of twenty-seven British warships has arrived at Macao? And you believe they have come to blockade us or to attack Guangzhou?”
“Yes, Excellency.”
“These pirate ships may be powerful on the open sea,” Lin remarked, “but they can’t come upriver. Between the sandbanks and the shore forts, they’d all be destroyed. As for blockading us, what would be the point? The reason the barbarians are here is to sell their accursed opium. We know this. Doesn’t it occur to you that these ships with guns may also be carrying opium?”
“They could be, I suppose.”
“It may be,” the commissioner continued imperturbably, “that they will try to smuggle opium in longboats from their ships. But your own dragon boats, my dear Jiang, have shown how easily we can deal with that sort of thing.”
All the same, having experienced the power of British naval gunnery, Shi-Rong wasn’t so optimistic. He’d seen what two British warships could do. What kind of havoc would be wreaked by twenty-seven?
“What shall we do then, Excellency?” he asked.
“Nothing,” said Lin. “Wait.”
The next day the great man was proved correct.
It was midafternoon, the Hour of the Monkey, when the fellow from Macao appeared. He was one of the most reliable of the small network of spies Shi-Rong still had on that island. Having questioned the man carefully, Shi-Rong went straight to Lin.
“You were right, Excellency. It seems that Elliot is intending to sail northward with the warships, up the coast to the island of Chusan. Then they’re going to blockade all the shipping to the mouth of the Yangtze River. They could even interrupt the grain supplies up the Grand Canal to the capital.”
“I doubt that is their purpose. The British are ruled by greed, and their only aim is to sell opium.” Lin gazed at Shi-Rong calmly. “Why is the rich island of Chusan famous for its fine houses and beautiful temples, Jiang? Because the corrupt mandarins on Chusan have never turned down a bribe from the opium smugglers. That’s where their money comes from.”
“All the same, since the British ships have so many guns, Excellency, the emperor may want to tell Chusan to prepare,” Shi-Rong suggested. “He might want to send reinforcements.”
Lin reflected. “I doubt there’d be time,” he murmured. “But I shall write to the emperor tonight,” he added, “and you may see the letter.”
* * *
—
It was the Hour of the Rat, the last hour before midnight, when Lin finally sent for him.
“Kindly read what I have written to the emperor.”
Naturally, the letter followed all the proper forms. Lin referred to himself as “your slave,” “respectfully beseeching” his ruler’s attention. Yet behind these verbal kowtows, Shi-Rong couldn’t help noticing, the commissioner’s tone was almost smug. Since the barbarians knew they had no hope of fighting their way to Guangzhou, he explained, and that any attempts at smuggling would be thwarted, they seemed to be going northward towards Chusan—presumably in hopes of selling their opium. If the authorities up the coast were equally vigilant, Lin suggested, with a trace of irony, the barbarian smugglers would have no luck there, either.
“And if the barbarians succeed in selling their opium at Chusan?” Shi-Rong asked.
“Perhaps the emperor will send me to investigate the officials at Chusan. There is one honest and worthy man up there: my friend the prefect of Zhenhai. It’s a small port on the coast near Chusan. But the rest are criminals.”
“I am still concerned about the British warships, Excellency,” Shi-Rong persisted. ‘‘They could easily destroy any fleet of war junks they encounter and even enter the ports. Shouldn’t we warn the emperor more forcefully about this?”
“If the defenses of Chusan are inadequate,” said Lin grimly, “and if they get a bloody nose, that’s their problem. Let them explain it to the emperor.”
“I’ll arrange for your letter to go by the express messenger, Excellency,” Shi-Rong said.
“No need. Use the ordinary messenger.” Lin smiled blandly. “As long as it’s on record that we informed the emperor.”
In the morning, however, Lin had one further instruction. “Write unofficially to my friend, the prefect of Zhenhai. Warn him about the warships. And ask him to send word of what’s happening up there. It’s always good to have information.”
Shi-Rong sent the letter that morning by a private messenger, hoping it would reach its destination q
uickly.
* * *
—
Over a month passed without any news. Shi-Rong wondered whether to ask Lin if he might visit his father, but decided against it. Still no word came. Finally, in August, a letter arrived from the prefect of Zhenhai.
The news was worse than he could have imagined. He rushed to Lin. “The British didn’t sell opium. They bombarded Chusan. They destroyed the defenses in less than an hour. The whole island is theirs.”
“Impossible. There are hundreds of thousands of people on Chusan.”
“They all ran. But there’s more, Excellency. Elliot has a letter, from their minister Palmerston to the emperor himself.”
“What impertinence! What’s in this letter?”
“Outrageous demands, Excellency. The British want to trade freely with half a dozen ports; their ambassadors are to be treated as though their queen were the equal of the emperor. They demand the island of Hong Kong as their own possession. They say that you have used them very ill and demand compensation for all the opium they say you destroyed. The prefect of Zhenhai writes that they refuse to give back the island of Chusan until all their demands have been met.”
“I can’t believe this. Do these pirates imagine they can turn the whole world upside down?”
“The prefect of Zhenhai says they delivered this letter to him, but that it was so outrageous that he refused to forward it to the emperor and gave it back to them.”
“Quite right. What followed?”
“Elliot is continuing northward. To Beijing itself.”
At this astounding news, Commissioner Lin fell silent, and remained so for some time. “Then I am destroyed,” he said at last. “Leave me alone, Mr. Jiang.”
* * *
—
Shi-Rong did not see his master until the following night, when he was summoned to join the great man for his evening meal.
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