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

in other matters, he was innocent. But he was not a fool; and it was clear to him that, for whatever reason, his cousin had no wish to be his friend. “I think I should leave you, Mr. Trader,” he said with simple dignity. “Should you ever wish to find me, it will not be difficult.”

Trader watched him go. He was sorry to behave badly—not that he had anything in common with his unwelcome cousin—but he wasn’t sorry if Whiteparish had decided to erase him from his life.

If he ever got the chance to pay his addresses to Agnes Lomond, Cecil Whiteparish must never appear. That was certain. A necessity. And then he realized that if, on the contrary, he gave up all ambition and ran away with Marissa, he’d be unlikely to see much of the missionary, either. Which was also a cheering thought.

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Shi-Rong was overjoyed. He’d done well so far. But his mission today put him on an altogether different level of trust with Commissioner Lin.

When he was so unexpectedly chosen to be the great man’s private secretary, Shi-Rong had been granted the lowliest of the nine ranks of the mandarin order. It made his position official and allowed him to wear a silver button in his hat and, on formal occasions, a big square silk brocade badge on his tunic, depicting a paradise flycatcher, which looked very fine and handsome.

As Lin’s private secretary, however, he was treated with a wary respect by provincial officials who were older than he and far more senior in rank. For they all knew he had the confidence of the commissioner, who reported to the emperor himself.

Indeed, Lin had kept him so busy that he had even, with the commissioner’s permission, engaged his young Cantonese tutor Fong to be his part-time assistant. In particular, Fong could often help him make sure he had understood what the local people said to him, for the people from the countryside often spoke dialects that were hard even for a native of the city to understand.

Three times Shi-Rong had written proudly to his father to let him know of some new task with which Lin had entrusted him. But this present matter was so personal and delicate—proof that the commissioner was sharing his most intimate secrets with him—that he wouldn’t even write to his father about it. A letter, after all, could always fall into the wrong hands.

He made his way from Thirteen Factory Street into Hog Lane, glancing behind to make sure he was not being followed. Hog Lane was empty. The stalls had all been boarded up. Even Dr. Parker’s little missionary hospital had moved into one of the factories. He reached the waterfront, also deserted.

Since the departure of the British for Macao, only a handful of foreigners, mostly Americans, were still using the factories. The place was like a ghost town.

He went along the line of silent factories until he came to a modest doorway and entered.

Dr. Parker had just finished treating a Chinese patient. Shi-Rong asked to speak with him privately.

The Chinese never gave Parker any trouble. First, he was American, not English, and had nothing to do with the drug trade. Second, he treated them for ailments that their own doctors did not often cure. And third, they liked him because he was a good and honest man.

“I have come on behalf of Commissioner Lin,” Shi-Rong explained. “His Excellency does not wish to be seen coming here himself, nor does he wish you to be seen entering his house. This is because he prefers that his malady should not be public knowledge.” He paused and smiled. “It’s nothing shocking. He just wants to keep it to himself.”

“You may assure him of my discretion. May I ask the nature of his trouble?”

“The truth is,” said Shi-Rong, “that the commissioner has a hernia.”

“Ah. Well, in that case,” said Parker, “there are various things I can do. One would be to fit him with a truss. But it would be much better if I did it in person, and more comfortable for him.”

“I understand, and I will repeat what you have said. But he hopes you can send him one. Is there something he can adjust?”

Parker mulled over the situation. Then he said, “I’ve a fairly good idea of his height and weight. Let me make a proposal. Give me until tomorrow evening, and I’ll send over half a dozen trusses. He can try them on, select the one that fits best, and you can bring the others back to me in a day or two. I’ll pack them myself and send them tomorrow at dusk. I have a totally reliable messenger. He’ll deliver the parcel, and he’ll have no idea what’s in it.” He smiled. “But try to persuade him to let me see him.”

Shi-Rong thanked him and left. Commissioner Lin seemed well satisfied with the arrangements. After that, Shi-Rong went out for a meal with Fong.

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It was night when Nio slipped back into the camp. Though darkness had fallen, he knew the track so well that he’d almost been running, and he was still trembling with excitement when he arrived.

The camp was only ten miles away from Guangzhou, but so far it had remained a safe haven for Sea Dragon and his men. Half the crew came from the nearby village, so no one in the locality was going to give them away. Discreet bribes to the magistrate had ensured that the village was left alone; and even during the crackdown this year, the magistrate had still been able to warn them whenever a police raid was imminent.

But it was still a depressing place. Because there was nothing to do.

Since Lin’s destruction of the opium, the drug trade had virtually shut down. They heard of boats pulling into coastal creeks here and there with maybe a dozen chests they’d got their hands on. But out in the gulf, nothing. No smuggling, no income. For the moment, at least, Lin had