China by Edward Rutherfurd (latest novels to read TXT) 📗

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